


The First Time You...

by victor_fucking_hugo



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Backstage, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drabble Collection, First Crush, First Time, Frenemies, Handcuffed Together, M/M, Middle School, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Relationship, Prison, Theatre, enjolras likes pickles, gavroche is a shitty kid but is also my son
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6296110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victor_fucking_hugo/pseuds/victor_fucking_hugo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of random drabbles following the prompt The First Time...<br/>As of right now, updates will be every two weeks or so (I'm challenging myself here people) so I'll update this list regularly, but as for now this is it:<br/>1) The First Time... in a jail cell<br/>2) The First Time... he had a crush<br/>3) The First Time... he 'celebrated' his birthday<br/>4) The First Time... they were stuck together... literally</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Time... in a jail cell

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of using Enjolras's and Grantaire's 'first names'. As you all know, Victor Hugo is a lil shit and didn't give most of his beautiful barricade boys first names soooo I had to make some up. Don't take them too seriously.
> 
> Also mentions of Grantaire being German and Puerto Rican, also specifically not French which yeah isn't accurate but these are my shitty drabbles so I'm taking some artistic license, okay? Okay.

It’s safe to say that Enjolras has spent a decent amount of his crazy, homo-loving, borderlining terrorist (“Nobody died Grantaire,  _ dammit,  _ it was just a…  _ peaceful protest  _ that got out of hand.”), activist life behind bars. Way more than he would probably care to admit. Grantaire would certainly know considering he spends a decent amount of his useless, lazy, somber life next to him.

 

But this is the first time he and Enjolras have been locked up alone. Together. Behind bars. This was going to be  _ torture.  _

 

Needless to say, they are actually here for pretty decent reasons--just black and white, right versus wrong shit that even Enjolras can’t fight his way out of. Usually it’s a lot more complicated when Enjolras gets arrested. Mainly because even behind bars or in handcuffs of  _ shoved up against the side of Burger King  _ (don’t ask), Enjolras doesn’t know when to drop his pride and fucking submit. 

 

Grantaire would find it stupid,  _ he does,  _ but it’s too endearing--too painfully  _ Enjolras-- _ to wish that he would act differently sometimes.

 

Now though, as Grantaire watches Enjolras pace the cold, cement floors of the precinct with nothing but one shoe and one bright pink sock on his feet, he can’t help but sigh. They’ve only been were for a matter of hours and Enjolras already looks like he is about to rip someone's throat out, probably with his teeth or some crazy, Enjolras-like shit, “Sit down, Apollo before you hurt your--”

 

“No.” Enjolras snaps, grinding his jaw in the exact way Combeferre told him  _ not to do.  _ Seriously, the guy can say goodbye to that charming, white smile by the time he hits thirty if he keeps it up like that. Not that Enjolras is exactly known for his bright and cheerful smiles but…

 

“Why don’t you try digging a hole?” Enjolras stops at Grantaire’s words, his bright pink sock no longer a pink blur in Grantaire’s vision. 

 

“Are you poking fun at me? Really Grantaire? At all times to be nuisance, you choose  _ now--” _

 

“Hey, hey, no need to get all defensive! You’ve done enough of that today.” Grantaire says, barely holding back a smile before Enjolras is once against again pacing, like pacing is the way to solve world hunger. Actually, if pacing was all it took, you better be damn sure that Enjolras would’ve solved that issue about a million times already with the amount of angry pacing the guy’s manages to squeeze into one day of freedom fighting. Really, it’s impressive. He’s pretty sure Courfeyrac has a betting pool about it somewhere. “Just thought that digging would be a lot easier than, you know, pounding your neon pink sock into the cement in order to make it crack or some shit. I’d offer my assistance but--”

 

“Shut up.” Enjolras bites out, his eyes flashing with pent up rage and Grantaire--well, of course Grantaire shuts up.

 

For as long as he can anyway.

 

He starts talking again sometime around when Enjolras starts shouting at a receptionist guy near the holding cells, which, yeah is obviously hilarious, in a sick and demented fucked up Grantaire way, but  _ still.  _ The guy looks like he is about to shit his pants if Enjolras yells at him about their  _ unsanitary living conditions  _ one more time. Grantaire can already see the plans jumbling through his head, even past his dirt-stained blonde hair, about how he is going to fix the whole prison health conditions epidemic in a week. Or two. Give or take.

 

“Are you really denying me my phone call right now?” Enjolras asks, well, he  _ tries.  _ Enjolras was never really good at asking questions. He gives it his best go though, but every question he asks just sound like a confused, harsh demand. 

 

The guy at the desk with an officer’s uniform that look a size or two too big on him looks about ready to bolt, and Grantaire really can’t say he blames him. Enjolras is terrifying. There is a set of rules about it on the Musain walls, made by Courfeyrac (with also a little help from Marius who has had more than enough first hand experience), with carefully planned out steps to take when Enjolras gets  _ too terrifying.  _ Too bad Grantaire can’t pull them out of his back pocket (not like they ever did him any good) and give them to the guy who honestly looks like he should be in school right now and not working the desk at the fucking precinct.

 

“Look man,” The guy says, stuttering over his words a bit. He’s acting more like Marius right now then Marius does on a daily basis. “I’m just covering some girl’s shift, okay? Um, yeah, I mean--Mr. Javert will be back soon and--and you can talk with him--”

 

“Did Mr. Javert,” Enjolras spits out the name like it’s some sort of sickness. Yah,  _ their rivalry went pretty far back.  _ “Strictly instruct you to withhold my right to make a phone call?”

 

“I, um, I can’t. He’ll be back soon to--”

 

Grantaire shakes his head, “Enjolras, just--”

 

“Just answer the damn question. It isn’t even a hard one!” Enjolras nearly shouts, and Grantaire can’t help but smile because-- _ oh my god. He is so fucked. How did he ever survive in a world without Enjolras in it? Watching him do outrageous things like this daily?  _

 

Enjolras still looks fucking terrifying though, even with his hair a mess, his lip split, his pink neon sock, and his face smushed between the bars. “It’s a simple yes or no.  _ Simple.” _

 

“He did.” The guy says at last, nervously clutching the pen in his hand as he tries to drag his gaze away from Enjolras’ and back to the paperwork he probably needs to get done. Enjolras doesn’t relent though, and no one just  _ looks away from Enjolras.  _ Come on, look at him. Try it. “But--But he told me that… it wasn’t my--”

 

“What’s your name?” Enjolras asks impatiently, but once again also doesn’t cause Enjolras sucks at asking questions, and Grantaire can’t contain his laughter. Nothing is more entertaining in this world than watching Enjolras go into full  _ detective/secret agent/hot ass lawyer/interrogator  _ mode. Again, there was an official vote. Grantaire faintly remembers the only thing that was voted more entertaining was watching Jehan beat the hell out of people twice his size which  _ fair. _

 

The guy looks hesitant for a moment, but one raise of Enjolras’ perfectly sculpted eyebrow has him spluttering, “Mark?”

 

Enjolras starts, Grantaire can practically  _ feel  _ his resolve cracking, “I’m sorry-- _ are you asking me a question right now?  _ Or is Mark actually your real name? Would you like me to clarify this information for you somehow?”

 

“It--yeah, I mean. Yeah, it’s Mark.”

 

“Good, now listen  _ Mark,”  _ Enjolras starts, and Grantaire doesn’t have it in himself to stop him. Not like he probably could. And perhaps should. But who is stupid enough to try and stop a tornado half way through its tirade? “Are you aware what the sixth amendment is in this awful country we live in?”

 

Enjolras, despite moving to America from France at around the age of eight, will never cease to let anyone believe that he  _ actually  _ lives here. Because, you know, he’s a prideful little shit.

 

“Um… I--”

 

“The Sixth Amendment guarantees the rights of criminal defendants, including the right to a public trial without unnecessary delay, the right to a lawyer, the right to an impartial jury, and the right to know who your accusers are and the nature of the charges and evidence against you.” Enjolras says without breaking a sweat. Textbook execution. “This, by default, also includes rights to defendants who wish to seek out legal counsel.”

 

The guy--Mark--is sweating buckets right about now, “Um, okay? Look man, I-I just work here--”

 

“So, by law,  _ Mark,  _ you are taking away  _ my given rights as a citizen of the United fucking States of America  _ by not allowing me to contact a legal counsel of my choosing all just because some washed-up, bigoted, old timer with a serious lack of respect for human beings in general, instructed you to do so. In doing this, you have inadvertently put my rights  _ as a human being  _ as a second priority to the order of a man who isn’t even far up enough in the chain of command here to grant such a demand. I don’t care how useless or petty your job is here, but I can assure you that no matter how low on the food chain you are here that  _ no one is allowed to order you to blatantly take away the given rights of citizen, Mark. _ ” Enjolras is fuming now, his voice way past the decent ‘inside voices’ they were instructed to keep upon entering the cells, “What do you have to  _ say for yourself?” _

 

So yeah, Enjolras gets his phone call. And Mark leaves the precinct after his shift is over only  _ a little scarred. _

 

When Enjolras returns to the cell, despite having only a five minute long conversation with Combeferre, he is seething. Which, isn’t really surprising, but even Grantaire had hoped that if anyone could calm and raging, bloodthirsty Enjolras down it would be Combeferre. But alas, Combeferre couldn’t even work his magical calming abilities on Enjolras. Not through the phone anyway.

 

“Oh what an extraordinary being,” Grantaire lulls after ten minutes of Enjolras stomping around, grumbling under his breath, and occasionally shaking the bars like they will pop off with nothing but the force of his anger. “So wise, so foolish--able to disobey the law one minute and then use the exact same law to wriggle his way out of a predicament. How admirable.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t even stop, just throws Grantaire a look that reads  _ one more word and you’re dead.  _ So, naturally, Grantaire keeps talking. “You never told me what the verdict is, chief. Are you busting us out? Guns blazing? Is Bahorel finally gonna put his white creeper van to use and sneak us away in it while we dress up as boxes ready to be shipped off to the other side of the world? Hell, I bet Feuilly is already planning our escape route--the Underground Railroad, perhaps?”

 

“Stop. Talking.” Enjolras says, sternly. “We’re stuck here until at least the morning--or whenever Javert let’s Combeferre and possibly Marius into the station to bail us out.”

 

Marius is the cute, innocent, kind-of-freaky-looking, face of the Amis. The group would be lying to themselves if they claimed they didn’t look sketchy/ always ready and willing to pounce on the next injustice that surfaces without a second glance,  _ but Marius _ . Marius is just on the right side of pitiful looking to get them out of especially hairy situations.

 

And yeah, stuck in a holding cell with Enjolras all night, definitely a hair worthy situation. 

 

Eponine is never going to let him hear the end of it, he thinks distantly.

 

“Weren’t able to work your lawyer magical girl powers--” Grantaire cuts off though because Enjolras is glaring at him, like really glaring at him, and Grantaire knows the look well enough to sigh because of course Enjolras takes it wrong.  _ Enjolras takes everything wrong.  _ “Wasn’t poking fun a woman, Apollo. Just--you know, it’s like on those Japanese cartoon shows Jehan and Courf--” Enjolras is still glaring,  _ shit.  _ “Um, you can be a magical  _ boy  _ if you want?”

 

Enjolras deflates at that, but still looks angry despite the release of tension. Enjolras rubs the end of his nose roughly, like he can literally beat away the allergies acting up and causing him to sneeze every couple minutes, (It’s not adorable,  _ but it is)  _ “How many times do I have to remind you people?”  _ You people. Meaning the entire world, because who else would Enjolras bother trying to talk to? To change. Grantaire is just people. Another Cause.  _ “Gender. Is. A. Social--”

 

“--Construct.” Grantaire gives him a meaningful look through the rat’s nest that may or may not be his hair. He isn’t brave enough to check, “I got it, Apollo. Loud and fucking clear.”

 

Grantaire leans back then and wants to physically punch  himself right between his eyes when he lets out quick gasp of… pain? Surprise? Whatever is it, Grantaire retracts from the wall and lays a gentle hand on his side, right on top of his pulsing ribs. Oh yeah. It’s amazing how time in the slammer can almost make you forget about a cop’s leather fucking boot coming down over and over against your chest literally hours ago.

 

Enjolras, now plugging his nose and scrunching up his forehead to will himself to hold in another attack of sneezing, looks over immediately, attentive as ever, “You’re hurt.” He says, his voice sounding distant and fuzzy due to his fingers clamped around the middle of his nose. 

 

Grantaire can’t help it,  _ God he is a little shit,  _ but with a pained smile he brings the hand not hovering over his ribs over his nose and says “Affirmative Captain.”

 

Which, yeah, might’ve made Courfeyrac laugh, but with just the two of them in the holding cell all Grantaire accomplishes is making Enjolras look even more annoyed and admitting to him that he is hurt--all while making a fool of himself.  _ Wonderful.  _ Grantaire always did pride himself in being an efficient multi-tasker.

 

“What’s wrong?” Enjolras asks, but doesn’t, as he stomps his way over, pink sock suddenly looking a lot more menacing that Grantaire remembers.  _ How did Enjolras even manage to lose his shoe again? _

 

Grantaire drops his hand, as Enjolras had, over his nose and sighs, “Nothing Apollo, I’m--”

 

“Hurt.” Enjolras growls, now standing over Grantaire’s slouched form with crossed arms. His eyes pierce daggers into Grantaire’s face as he says, “You didn’t tell me you were hurt.”

 

“What’s the point?” Grantaire asks, slightly annoyed. Enjolras is pushy and persistent at the worst of times. It is late and Grantaire is tired and after a long day of fighting against a Cause he doesn’t believe it (and worrying, lots of worrying,  _ fuck)  _ he is drained. “I’ll have Joly check out everything tomorrow, it’s not--”`

 

“A big deal? Are you being purposely daft Grantaire or did you take too many blows to the head?”

 

“No Apollo, I’m afraid my own intellec is getting in the way of your hero complex once again--”

 

“Stop that.” Enjolras snaps, suddenly much closer, glowering over Grantaire like an avenging angel that didn’t know when to  _ stop.  _

 

“Stop what?” 

 

“Trying to make me mad.” Enjolras explains, like Grantaire is just pretending to not notice the obvious. If his dramatic eye roll is anything to go on, “Purposely riling me up with stupid little--”

 

“What are you talking about? Riling you up is what I do best.” Grantaire is pretty sure Jehan made a list of all the Amis’ attributes to the group and Grantaire’s number one was  _ fighting Enjolras on everything.  _ What an attribute. Jehan certainly thought it was significant enough. But, then again, some asshole had written hopeless flirt with one another under each of their names with a large red sharpie about a week or so ago so... _ yeah, maybe the attribution sheet shouldn’t be trusted.  _

 

“No, you try and picks fights with me,” Enjolras says, and pauses, like he is waiting for Grantaire to interject. But Grantaire, while notorious for cutting Enjolras off whenever he is on a roll, knows when Enjolras has more to say better than anyone. Why he chooses now to let him continue is beyond him. “But now you are just making me mad to avoid the subject.  _ Stop it _ .”

 

And there Enjolras goes again, seeing through Grantaire like he is a clear piece of glass. If only Enjolras was as easy to read at times like these. All Grantaire can see is the angry front Enjolras wears almost all the time. A scowl is his ‘resting face’. Which, yeah, maybe Grantaire is just an idiot for hoping there is something underneath all that rough exterior. He sure as hell knows Enjolras isn’t going to have a sentimental and soft true self underneath all of his pride and righteous fury. But-- _ something.  _ Something that makes Grantaire realize that Enjolras is indeed human and not some statue of perfection that he could never get too close to in a million years.

 

He has yet to find something to grasp onto. But for now, watching him from a distance is enough and will probably have to be enough for, well…. forever.

 

Eventually though, and with a reluctant sigh, Grantaire tells Enjolras that he might’ve been stomped on by an angry police officer in the middle of the ‘peaceful protest’. And Enjolras, in return, looks furious.

 

“Someone  _ pushed you down?”  _ Enjolras growls, eyes narrowing.

 

Grantaire can’t help but roll his eyes, “No, a police officer just came over, lifted his leg a bit, and squashed me like a bug.” Enjolras glares at him, obviously not impressed and Grantaire can’t help but crack a smile, “I never thought you were one for short jokes, chief. I guess Bahorel will eventually rub off on everyone I suppose--”

 

“Where?” Enjolras says, reaching down and before Grantaire can protest and make some shit up about Enjolras acting too much like Joly whenever someone gets splinter the back of his hands find Grantaire’s side. Grantaire barely holds back a whine, but there is no way he could hold back the obvious flinch the ripples through his body. Enjolras pulls back then and, to Grantaire’s horror, drops to his  _ fucking knees.  _

 

Grantaire’s mind goes blank as he splutters, “What? What are you--”

 

“Take off your shirt.” And wow, could Enjolras not repeat the exact words Grantaire imagines him saying whenever he is lost in his own sad fantasies? 

 

Grantaire’s mind is still processing, or trying to, but luckily he can still be an asshat without a brain, so, “Oh Apollo, you flatter me.” He misses being sarcastic by a long shot and ends up talking like he just smoked a pack in ten minutes flat, shit, “But on the floor of the precinct? What will  _ The People  _ think--”

 

“Grantaire, this is no time for you to--” Enjolras’ pauses, his cold demeanor breaking for a split second as his face scrunches up. And then he sneezes, too quiet and cute to even come close to matching every other aspect of Enjolras, but Grantaire still smiles when Enjolras just scowls and wipes his nose with his sleeve.

 

“We’re a mess.” Grantaire says, laughing a bit despite the pain that shoots to his ribs whenever he lets out a breathy laugh.

 

Enjolras just shakes his head, stands up and heads back to the bars, a determined scowl on his face.  _ Oh great.  _

 

Enjolras fights a little bit with the new, more nonchalant, receptionist that sits behind the desk by the holding cell. The guy obviously doesn’t give a shit and hardly tries to fight Enjolras until Javert suddenly strolls in, looking rumpled and tired from a night’s work. Grantaire has seen him enough times, but never has he actually been caught by the police before (Enjolras was the reigning champ of being taken in by the cops, if anyone asked, unsurprisingly). When the man’s cold, stern eyes lands on Enjolras though his whole body tenses up like he expects Enjolras to pounce from behind the iron bars. 

 

His eyes narrow as he steps in front of Enjolras, obviously in old man attack mode or--whatever, “I know this one. I’ll take care of him.”

 

The receptionist just grunts in reply and continues reading their magazine.

 

Ten minutes later Enjolras and Javert are all but having a screaming match from between the bars. And people thought Grantaire was bad when he argued with Enjolras. At least Grantaire stood a fighting chance. Javert on the other hand has nothing but ‘the law’ on his side and Enjolras practically tears down everything the man says. 

 

“I am asking for an aspirin, Javert.” Enjolras says through clenched teeth. “A fucking  _ aspirin--” _

 

“And I am respectfully declining your proposal.” Javert snaps. “Your-- _ accomplice-- _ isn’t going to die from a couple of bruised ribs he most definitely deserved when he so ruthlessly went against law enforcement. You should know this more than anyone,  _ Julien.” _

 

Grantaire sucks in an involuntary breath through his teeth because,  _ no.  _ If you know one thing about Enjolras, that is don’t fucking call him by his first name.  _ Jesus.  _ How many times has this guy arrested him and he still doesn’t know that?

 

It was sort of a thing with the Amis--everyone going by their last names. Grantaire had already gone by R way before he met, and then eventually joined, the Amis so having to change from his first name to his last wasn’t that much of a stretch. Not like they would force him to do so. Jehan created a whole new name in general and no one questioned him on it. 

 

He remembers Courfeyrac at the beginning calling him a bunch of names, as had a bunch of people in the past, trying to figure out what he went by.  _ Miguel? Miggy? How ‘bout just Guel?--give me some help here man.  _ Eventually Grantaire laughed and told him R was fine, but only after he explained the pun did Courfeyrac laugh and convince everyone to stick to the funny nickname.

 

Everyone, except Enjolras of course.

 

When Enjolras had first heard someone call Grantaire _ R _ his eyes had narrowed solely on him, like he was something to be studied and scrutinized, “Are you even French?”

 

Grantaire saw no reason to lie, “ _ Non _ , German and Puerto Rican.”

 

Enjolras had just glared at him, shuffled his papers roughly against the table before making his dramatic exit while muttering things like  _ disgraceful  _ and  _ shameful  _ and probably  _ fucking cynical asshat with no respect blah blah blah. _

 

It was pretty funny. But now Enjolras is the only person in the world to call Grantaire--well,  _ Grantaire.  _ Which, yeah, okay, that didn’t make Grantaire feel all warm and fuzzy or anything. For the record.

 

Enjolras, incredibly, doesn’t latch onto the bait Javert is very obviously dangling in front of him, “This isn’t about me. Trust me, if it was about me I have no doubt you would let me sit here and suffer and I would take it without a word of complaint.” Javert looks at Enjolras doubtfully, but can you blame the guy? No words and Enjolras really don’t go together. “This is about my friend who got injured by my side and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here all night and watch him suffer when I know you people here can easily call a physician or offer him pain medication.”

 

And  _ dammit,  _ it really should so so stupid and cheesey. Every speech Enjolras has ever made in his entire life probably sounds vaguely like a dying monologue from some shitty, low budget, medieval war movie. But it just  _ isn’t.  _ And it doesn’t now. Enjolras is too full of conviction to ever sound anything less than inspiring. 

 

It’s no wonder Grantaire hated him so much. (And therefore, by default, loved him.)

 

Javert’s eyes travel towards Grantaire, like he is just noticing he is there. Grantaire can’t help the grin that creeps up onto his face, “Long time no see, Jav. I think the last time I saw you, you were dragging this guy out of--what fast food restraunt was it? Not Burger King...that was Junior year...”

 

“Arby’s.” Enjolras and Javert say at the same time before resuming their glaring. 

 

“Are you dying?” Javert asks, no emotion in his tone.

 

“We’re all dying, inspector. It’s inevitable.” Grantaire says, not even trying to be a little shit. Just letting it flow out of him naturally.

 

“Then there is your answer, Julien.” Javert snaps before turning his back to the bars and stalking further down the hallway of the precinct. 

 

Enjolras doesn’t move for a while, probably busy having an internal battle on who he is more pissed at. Grantaire or the bald ass police officer whose rivalry has been going to every since Enjolras was a sophomore in high school? He turns around eventually though, his expression carefully guarded and his posture stiff.

 

“You know, it used to be funny when Javert called you by your first name.” Grantaire says, gently resting his head back against the wall. He vaguely notices that his beanie is gone, probably taken off of him when he was locked up a few hours earlier. “Now though...it’s just  _ shitty?” _

 

“Why’d you do that?” Enjolras ask, and  _ oh. He actually asks.  _

 

Grantaire ignores the sudden tightness in his throat and says, “Wasn’t worth is. Don’t worry about it, Apollo. Just--Just relax or something. You’ve been stomping around like an angry gazelle.”

 

“Gazelle?” Enjolras gives him a dubious look.

 

“You know, you got the whole majestic while also kind of dirty look going on and with the long legs well--I didn’t wanna compare you to a giraffe. So, gazelle it is.” 

 

Enjolras  _ is  _ pulling of the majestically dirty look though. It isn’t that hard. Just throw a bit of dirt on him, stick some rubble into the bottom of his remaining shoe, tear up his idiotic red leather jacket, throw a couple of punches at him--and  _ voila _ . You have a hot, avenging angel, gazelle hybrid.

 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, his voice strained. “Don’t do that.”

 

“What?” Enjolras could mean a lot of things. Don’t get stomped on at protests, don’t tease me about my looks, don’t be a jackass, don’t compare me to hybrid gazelle. There were a lot of options to choose from.

 

The one Enjolras offers though makes absolutely no sense, “Don’t put yourself down. You may be ambitionless and a cynical bastard, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve treatment if you are injured.”

 

_ “Oh.”  _ Grantaire bites his bottom lip, really not sure how to respond. He opens his mouth, “Did you hit your head, Apollo? Are you finally seeing me as a citizen now instead of a threat to the Cause?”

 

“I have never saw you as a threat.” Enjolras stares at him for a moment, his gaze eerily concentrated on him like Grantaire is something to be inspected which--doesn’t make sense, at all. Grantaire has always been a thorn in Enjolras’ side, nothing more and nothing less, but for him to look at him this way now was, well, uncanny? Further proof that after Enjolras hit that officer at the protest  that that officer hit him back  _ way harder.  _

As if reading Grantaire’s mind, Enjolras says evenly, “I don’t need to to fight my battles for me, Grantaire. Standing by my side is enough… especially because,” Enjolras doesn’t continue, but doesn’t break his gaze either. 

 

“Sure, yeah E whatever, next time I’ll just run back to the Musain with my tail between my legs like a fucking--”

 

Enjolras is already interjecting before Grantaire can even finish the word ‘tail’ and successfully finish comparing himself to sme mutt, “I gave the signal. The protest was over and you were all supposed to retreat. Notice how no one else is in here? They  _ listened to me.” _

 

Grantaire tries to smile, but it probably comes off as a pained grimace. How does Grantaire tell Enjolras that he couldn’t. That once he saw the policeman hit Enjolras that he literally couldn’t register anything except the need to  _ fight back.  _ Yep, there was no easy way to tell Enjolras than he would literally follow him anywhere, do anything for him, and--and  _ yeah. No way. _

 

So he sticks to what he is good at, being a little shit, “I was never good at listening to you, but you already knew that.  Guess your stuck with me for the night.”

 

“That’s not--you got hurt, Grantaire for no good reason other than you were being reckless.” Grantaire barely holds in a laugh.  _ Yep, he was the one always going on and doing something reckless… _ “You--”

 

“I always warn you people are going to be injured at these, Enjolras!” Grantaire says, probably louder than necessary. But Enjolras is already staring at him, so he might as well get it all out in the open now instead of later in his bedroom with Eponine rubbing circles into his back, “But  _ you never fucking listen to me either.  _ I’m sure I’m not the only one who got trampled or got whacked or--or  _ did you even ask Combeferre is everyone was alright?  _ Just cause they didn’t get caught, that doesn’t mean--”

 

“It didn’t come up.” Enjolras says, hotly. “He would’ve informed me if something--”

 

“Would he? You’re already pissed off enough as it is. Combeferre probably thought it best not to say anything in fear that you would Hulk out in the middle of the precinct and get yourself into even more trouble.” Grantaire says, glaring Enjolras’ way.

 

Enjolras’ eyes narrow further, his arms cross over his chest in defiance, “You shouldn’t have done that, Grantaire.” And, of course Enjolras is back to that. He never could let an argument go.

 

And yeah, maybe jumping onto the back of a police officer twice his size just to be bucked off and stomped on wasn’t his brightest idea. But he wasn’t going to let Enjolras get the satisfaction of hearing him say that.

 

Enjolras continues, all conviction and hopefulness that Grantaire can barely stomach, “The least you could’ve done was let me get you some medication. We’re going to be here all night you know and Joly is going to have a fit when he sees the state you’re in.”

 

“B-o-o. H-o-o.” Oh fuck, if Grantaire hasn’t had a drink and is already quoting the fucking Breakfast Club then you know it’s been a long ass night.

 

Enjolras, not deterred at all by Grantaire’s unsatisfactory reply, approaches him once again. Grantaire holds his breathe for only a second, bracing himself for something he isn’t quite sure he knows. A rant? A good ol’ fashioned glare? A punch or two? A burst of light? Enjolras is unpredictable at the worst of times.

 

“Lay down.”

 

“Huh?” Grantaire is honestly unsure if he heard Enjolras right because-- _ what? _

 

“It’ll take some of the pressure off… maybe. I don’t know. Just try it and see if it helps because you look like you can barely breath and that slouched position you’re in right now isn’t helping at all support--”

 

“Yeah, yeah, sure whatever. But if some bug crawls up from underneath one of these benches and crawls into my ear and fucks up my brain--well, that’s on you.” Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras face is neutral, “Duly noted.”

 

So, Grantaire lies down and it helps? Maybe? It helps Grantaire not have to look Enjolras directly in the eye for a second longer which, in itself, is pretty helpful to Grantaire’s sanity at the moment. Still, lying down on his back against the cold, metal bench does nothing to warm up Grantaire’s already chilled skin. The position itself makes Grantaire feel more exposed somehow, like Enjolras will definitely look at Grantaire any differently now that he is on his back. Still, it helps the tension leave his shoulders and even though Enjolras’ hypothesis hasn’t been exactly proven true just yet, he could definitely feel his chest start to loosen up and the area around his ribs felt better as an extension.

 

He doesn’t bother looking up at Enjolras for a reaction. It was Enjolras’ idea after all, if he isn’t happy with it that has nothing to do with Grantaire. He opts to instead let his heavy eyelids flutter shut, not like he is exactly looking for a good night’s sleep, but just resting is enough for Grantaire’s pulsing mind at that moment.

  
  
  


“Grantaire, wake up.”

 

“Hmm?” Is Grantaire’s answer. His eyes feel heavy, a thousand times heavier than before but…  _ what? _ “Did I…?”

 

“Shh, don’t talk, just lift up your head.” Enjolras says, his voice unnaturally quiet and instead of waiting for Grantaire to comply he takes matter into his own hand and lets his long fingers sink into Grantaire’s disastrous hair, gently lifting up his head with carefulness Grantaire wasn’t aware he possessed.

 

“Huh..?” His words are slurred even to his own ears and he isn’t even wasted. “Enj--”

 

“Go back to sleep.” Enjolras says once Grantaire’s head is firmly resting on his knee.  _ His knee. As in Enjolras’ fucking knee underneath Grantaire’s head. _

 

_ Was that even allowed? _

 

Grantaire is about to interject, to claim that this is a dream and that Enjolras  _ really needed to go see if he had a concussion,  _ but then Enjolras’ fingers are back in his hair, slowly raking through it like it  _ hasn’t  _ been washed in days. Like it’s not literally a rat’s nest that Grantaire has seriously considered asking Eponine to chop off when he gets out of here. Like he-- _ he doesn’t mind.  _

 

“Got to sleep.” Enjolras says again, his fingertips twisting gently into Grantaire’s head and getting dangerously close to his nape.

 

The last thing Grantaire registers is the lights of the precinct flashing in an attempt to stay on through the long night and Enjolras’ controlled breathing. 

  
  


Grantaire wakes up to Enjolras shaking him awake. Grantaire’s mouth tastes horrible and he has a awful headache, one that is pounding so badly he feels as though it may be affecting his vision a bit. And don’t even mention his  _ ribs… _

 

He barely has time to register where is before Enjolras, now standing above him, is hauling him to his feet and dragging him out of the holding cell, arm carefully around his waist like Grantaire is some maiden he is whisking away at the ball.

 

“Hey Apollo, come on, I’m fine.” Grantaire tries, but Enjolras just keeps going, grip only getting tighter the more Grantaire protests. Eventually he lets Enjolras have his way without a word. Enjolras is an immovable object and not even the things his arm is doing to Grantaire’s sanity while wrapped around his waist can stop him.

 

“Combeferre is here, he brought Joly and he’ll take a look at you. Okay?” Enjolras asks when a particularly grouchy police lady is leading them through the halls of the precinct, near a set of two of windows that lets in the blinding light of the mid-morning day. “You can walk, right?”

 

“Sure, sure,” Grantaire replies before looking up, catching Enjolras’ gaze against the blinding light outside, and audibly gasps, “ _ Jesus,  _ someone should look at you too, Apollo.”

 

The left side of Enjolras’ face is slightly swollen and a harsh reddish purple color that makes Grantaire wince. Grantaire has the sudden urge to trace his fingers along the bruise. He isn’t sure what good it’ll do, but he figures Enjolras would swat his hand away like he was some pesky fly if he even dared to. His hand stays dutifully down at his side. Enjolras only shrugs, “I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

 

_ Worried about. You. As in… Grantaire? _

 

“Not necessary.” Grantaire chokes out, shaking his head. “Joly will have enough worry for the both of us.”

 

“Right.” Enjolras barely answers, just shuffles Grantaire out of the precinct and towards Bahorel’s white creeper van. 

 

Enjolras’ grip is still firm against Grantaire’s mid section and with every step Grantaire feels his ribs burning, but he continues on nonetheless, barely saving himself by putting his fucking foot in his mouth. He smiles, despite the fluttering feeling in his chest, “Are you sure they’re letting us out, Apollo? I’m starting to think you took my using Bahorel’s van in order to bust out of jail plan way too seriously.”

 

Enjolras scowls at him, but doesn’t say anything more when they approach the van.

 

They never talk about the incident, but Grantaire thinks he should be more thankful for that than anything. For all he knows he came up with it, configured it up in his own mind to feed his worrying desires. He certainly wouldn’t put it past himself to do so.

 

But still, days after the incident he is left with the dull feeling on his head, through his curls, at his nape that he can only associate with Enjolras. Whether it had been figment of his imagination or not suddenly didn’t matter. The gentleness the touch had, the sudden endearment each caress against his scalp had as Grantaire was lulled to sleep by it--not to mention the warmth of Enjolras’ thigh against his cheek, his muscles pulsing against his head like--

  
In short, Grantaire was haunted by the incident for  _ weeks.  _ What a loser.


	2. The First Time... he had a crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It happens in eighth grade, which, for the record, is never a good way to start a story about romance and flirtatious relationships. 
> 
> *
> 
> Enjolras's first crush...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in the 8th grade (I know. bad memories) and is more of a set up to a bigger thing coming in the future. Still, I like writing about these guys even if it isn't all fluffy and relationship-y stuff all the time.  
> Promise there will be more in the next chapter 
> 
> There are really no trigger warnings in this chapter because they are in eighth grade and nothing happens except hormones and awkward, gross teenage shit.  
> Lots of cursing? For middle schoolers maybe

It happens in the eighth grade, which, for the record, is never a good way to start a story about romance and flirtatious relationships. 

 

Grantaire at the time barely even knew Enjolras. Sure, they had their classes together in elementary school (who could forget the time Enjolras, fourth grader Enjolras to be exact, who made a teacher burst into tears when she yelled at another student for not using the ‘gender appropriate bathroom’. Enjolras was fighting injustice before he even knew what injustice really was), but they never talked until they got paired up to do a project in their Natural Science class in the middle of their sixth grade year. (“Alright, our planet is Uranus. I need you to go grab a laptop and-- um, Miguel? What’s so funny? Oh.  _ Oh wow, you’re really mature.  _ Awesome. Glad to know you’ll take this project seriously.” “Nah man, you’re serious enough for the both of us.”)

 

It was eighth grade year though when the triumvirate formed. Courfeyrac moved from his hometown in Michigan and Combeferre and Enjolras had known each other since kindergarten, but still when the three were together it was if they had all known each other their entire lives. Looking back on it though, Grantaire is thankful and kind of bummed Eponine didn’t go to the same middle school he did. Being a third wheel (along with Marius, Jehan, and Bossuet) to the triumvirate throughout middle school was a pain in the ass. But then again, the last thing he needed was a Thenardier watching him go through puberty.

 

Regardless, it all started when Courfeyrac had the ‘brilliant idea’ that would allow them all to be in the same class together. 

 

“Theatre tech?” Marius asks, clearly skeptical. He yanks on the neck of his polo shirt, a grimace on his face, before Jehan sighs next to him and reaches over to undo two of the buttons.

 

“Marius, honey, you have to stop buttoning this up all the way. We are  _ trying  _ to fight the required student uniform system--not encourage it.” Jehan says before turning back to his cold lunch. A jar of pickles, a bag of chocolates with no label on them, a plain tortilla, a plastic bag stuffed almost to the brink with cinnamon applesauce, and a thermos filled with what Grantaire could only guess was cottage cheese. 

 

Enjolras is already reaching for the jar of pickles, tugging it close to his chest from across the table while Jehan tries his best to hide his smirk. Enjolras will never admit his weakness for pickles, but that doesn’t stop Jehan from letting him indulge in it once in awhile. Enjolras says, unscrewing the jar, “You want us all to join tech?”

 

“Yes!” Courfeyrac explains, bumping Combeferre on the shoulder, jostling the book out of his hands. “Come on, it’ll be fun! We’ll be the leaders of backstage. The masked crusaders of the theatre. The hidden heros. The ninjas in the night.”

 

“Ninjas?” Bossuet asks, grinning. 

 

Courfeyrac shrugs, “You have to wear all black to be backstage during shows.”

 

“Yeah,” Grantaire cuts in, poking at the piece of pizza on his plate with a fork. He thinks there might be olives on it, but considering the menu said pepperoni he has been contemplating whether or not it is worth it to give it a shot. “That’s why all the emo kids join theatre tech.”

 

“Hey, don’t go bashing on emo kids.” Courfeyrac teases.

 

“I’m not,” Grantaire says between a mouthful of mandarin oranges. He swallows, “I’m just saying we’re definitely not emo enough to join tech. I mean… look at Jehan.”

 

Sure enough, Jehan is clad in his usual striped purple bandana over his strawberry blonde hair and his unfitting, way too baggy and warm for early spring, tie dye sweater followed by an assortment of bracelets and silly bands that travel almost up to his elbow. He blinks Grantaire’s way, “What? Too flashy?”

 

“You look amazing Jehan.” Bossuet assures him and Grantaire nods in agreement.

 

Jehan smiles, “Thanks babe.”

 

“Who  _ cares.”  _ Courfeyrac whines, shoving his shoulder up against Combeferre once again. This time Combeferre doesn’t ignore him and instead lets out a heavy sigh, marking his place in his book before setting it asides. Courfeyrac beams up at him, “Come on Ferre. You, me, and Enj can all be stage managers and--”

 

“There can only be one stage manager, Courf.” Enjolras says, already on his fourth pickle. “And we aren’t going to come into that class and steal anyone’s position just because we’re older than they might be.”

 

“You sure Razzy?” Grantaire can’t help but say, grinning like an idiot. “We could go in there, guns blazin’, pull a Mussolini and take over complete control of the theatre department--minus the being ousted when everyone realizes how--”

 

“We  _ are not  _ going to become dictators.” Enjolras says, pointedly. 

 

“We’re not. Everyone here is too soft. You on the other hand are the  _ only one _ at this table,  _ hello Combeferre,  _ that aced Speech class.” Grantaire says. “All you need is a German accent, a toothbrush mustache, and an undercut hairstyle and--”

 

_ “Is this another crack about my hair?  _ How many times to I have to tell you  _ I literally don’t even know what a perm is. _ Let alone where to get one--”

 

“ _ Wait-- _ go back a bit. Does does that mean we are doing it?” Courfeyrac asks.

 

“I don’t mind it.” Combeferre says--the first thing he says all lunch--and everyone stares at him in wonder, surprised by his sudden willingness to go along with Courfeyrac’s (normally terrible) ideas. “I didn’t have any grand ideas on what electives I wanted to take next semester.”

 

“Considering we are along limited to roughly around four options anyway…” Enjolras says, sounding slightly annoyed at the lack of choices  _ middle schoolers  _ have in choosing their own courses.

 

“Most people take study halls.” Bossuet pipes in, already unwrapping the foil of his cupcake before even bothering with his pasta. “It’s the easiest and requires the least amount of effort. I heard chorus was fun though.”

 

Courfeyrac waves him off easily, nearly smacking Combeferre’s glasses off of his face, “No, no, no,  _ you’re missing the point.  _ We can’t all just take chorus or and or study hall or  _ whatever.  _ There’ll be no guarantee that we’ll be in the same class if we do that.”

 

“Why so?” Marius asks.

 

“Because those classes are  _ packed  _ with kids. There are about four different chorus classes and even more study halls to choose from. Theatre tech though is different.”

 

“It’s so small that they’ll have no choice but to stick us all into one class.” Grantaire finishes, finally gaining the courage to lift his pizza off his tray.

 

Courfeyrac winks at him, “Bingo! Now you’re getting it.”

 

Enjolras takes another bite of his pickle, his brows pinching together in thought. His hair is in a terrible, half-bun thing that Courfeyrac constructed last hour at the end of gym class. It has held in pretty well considering Courfeyrac knows next to nothing about hair, but still tendrils occasionally fall out and liter the back of Enjolras’ next and trail down his plain navy polo. It’s only after he swallows and flicks a couple pieces of hair out of his eyes that he answers, “It might be fun. Why not?”

 

The table breaks out into a small flurry of cheers (mostly Jehan who only squeals after getting trapped in a death hug in between Bossuet and Courfeyrac) and it suddenly occurs to Grantaire that in a way the whole table was on board with the whole idea the moment Courfeyrac brought up to subject, probably even Combeferre. It was strange, but also eerily accurate how the whole table unconsciously waited for Enjolras’s opinion on the matter. No one asked for it, not specifically for his anyway. But it was still like his input on whether or not they should take the class was the final step in order to see if they would all sign up for the elective or not. 

 

Grantaire hadn’t put a lot of thought into it at the time. Just simply shrugged, decided to take the art elective in high school, and continued to stare down his olive/pepperoni pizza until the bell rang.

  
  


**

 

Tech class turns out to be as shady and emo as Grantaire knew it was going to be, not that he minded much. At least Courfeyrac seemed happy with it.

 

On the first day of the second semester, Courfeyrac runs into the shitty, little middle school auditorium with stars in his eyes, dragging a grinning Jehan behind him. The stage is about a million years old and has too many spots literally the floors, walls, and backstage from too many shady encounters that have piled up over the school’s long and abstract history that no one can really tell which stains are what. But every stain has a story… just no one knows them. (By then end of the ear you can bet your ass Bossuet and Grantaire come up with a weird ass story for every splash of green or fuzzy spot of black coating the stage)

 

Besides the six of them, there are four other students in the class. Three of them Grantaire can’t remember at all. Or wishes he didn’t.  A certain brown haired boy with beaming green eyes and a smile to cheer up thousands is stuck in his memory, probably will for a long portion of his life, but he blocks that shit out as best as he can. The main person he remembers, or comes to know eventually, is the short, freckled boy with pale skin and flashing orange hair who is wearing a sweatshirt that looks like it hasn’t been washed in at least three months. His shoes are torn up and are at least a couple sizes too big, but the boy could just have really big feet compared to his stick thin legs. Grantaire doesn’t judge, his feet are pretty fucked up too (Converse give him blisters. What he did in a past life to deserve this fate, he isn’t sure).

 

Courfeyrac introduces himself immediately, and considering Courfeyrac’s tall stature in the eighth grade compared to most kids, it doesn’t surprise Grantaire that some mistake him as the teacher at first considering, you know,  _ the teacher isn’t even fucking there.  _ Tech theatre… shady as fuck.

 

Green Eyes turns out to be stage manager. Go figure. But no one questions his authority considering he is an eighth grader too but transferred here earlier in the year. The other two students, both of whom are elbow deep in their emo phases, each work a side of the side: right stage and left stage. And, as for the ginger…

 

“Feuilly, huh? What origin is that? You Italian or something?” Courfeyrac asks, leaning off the stage in a way that would make Combeferre scold him for being reckless if Green Eyes wasn’t showing him and Enjolras  _ the shop  _ where apparently they build props and sets and shit for shows. 

 

Feuilly gulps, looking uncomfortable in a sweatshirt he could literally swim in, “Um, I don’t know, could be French?”

 

“ _ Ha!  _ Hear that, R? He’s a Frenchie just like me and Enj.” Courfeyrac says, grinning at Feuilly like he has done something great. Courfeyrac fakes tears, mumbling into Jehan’s shoulder who is rolling his eyes next to him, “Enjolras will be so proud.  _ So proud.” _

 

“Mind if we call you that then?” Bossuet asks, shrugging a bit. “Not that your first name sucks as anything. We’re just trying to start a cult where we only call each other by our last names. Marius is the only one cool enough not to follow it apparently.”

 

Marius is the only one who didn’t take theatre tech. Courfeyrac only let him do it without complaint because he “found the love of his life” and ultimately signed himself up for (hell) chorus next semester all just because when some chick had asked him what he was going to take he was too much of an idiot not to follow in her footsteps. Grantaire  _ almost  _ felt bad for him.

 

“Bossuet!” Courfeyrac shouts, shaking his head. “You can’t just go out and say we’re a cult… people will get  _ suspicious.  _ We’re like--a, um,  _ low key cult.  _ You know what I’m saying, Feuilly?” 

 

Feuilly blinks, “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, man.”

 

Courfeyrac grins, “Great. So what'd ya do in the land on the  _ techies?”  _

 

Feuilly shrugs a bit, “I build the sets.”

 

Grantaire blinks like an owl, “You build them?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“By yourself.” Grantaire clarifies.

 

Feuilly bites his lip, shrugging a bit again, “Yeah I mean--if they have all the tools and stuff, I don’t mind. Matty sometimes helps me with shit and stuff, but…”

 

By ‘Matty’ Grantaire assumes Feuilly means “Green Eyes’ considering he is the only other guy on tech who looks capable of doing anything remotely useful (the other two are currently in the back of right stage near the fly system playing  _ Magic: The Gathering.  _ Take that as you will). 

 

“Amazing Feuilly!” Jehan rejoices, gripping Feuilly’s hands and jumping like a toddler. Feuilly’s eyes widen for a bit before he eases back into a carefree smile, his shoulders slumping a bit. “You’ll have to whip us into shape even if you are only a seventh grader--”

 

Feuilly’s face scrunches up a bit, “Oh, I’m in eighth grade too. Did I mention that?”

 

Bossut tilts his head to the side; Grantaire can’t help but notice how thin Bossuet’s dark hair has gotten since last summer… “Really? I don’t think I remember seeing you in any classes.”

 

“Me neither.” Jehan pipes in.

 

“Oh, well, me and, um, Matty are from the same foster family so… we move around a lot, I guess.” Feuilly says, with as much nonchalance as he can. Grantaire would give him a A for effort.

 

Courfeyrac just beams at him though, oblivious as always but in an endearing way, “Splendid, we’ll get to know each other just great then, Feuilly.”

 

Feuilly, bless him, just smiles when Courfeyrac throws a careless arm around his shoulder, “Sure, sure, you guys seem like a cool crowd.”

 

“Sure we are.” Courfeyrac says, looking farther down the stage, “Hey Ferre! Come here and meet our new ginger friend.”

 

Combeferre, who is standing in a little herd with Enjolras and Green Eyes, turns to Courfeyrac with startled eyes behind his lenses and only groans when he sees the choke hold he has on Feuilly. Quickly grabbing his backpack and waving at Green Eyes once more, he rushes across the stage, presumably to save Feuilly’s life because that is just the kind of guy Combeferre is. Grantaire, on the other hand, has his eyes stuck on Enjolras and Green Eyes.

 

They are around the same height, Green Eyes is probably an smidge taller, but it isn’t a monumental difference. And, considering that Enjolras is already tall for his age, is kind of strange to see.  And Enjolras is…  _ smiling?  _ Did Jehan have a couple of pickles leftover from lunch to give him today or did Grantaire forget to read the news and see that some stupid law Enjolras has probably been gushing over for months was finally passed. It’s possible. Grantaire isn’t the most observant person ever.

 

That is probably why it takes a decent amount of time staring at the two talking, shoulder to shoulder, smiling and shrugging, to realize why a lump has grown in his throat and a sudden knot has formed in his stomach. Enjolras’s unreal and stern gaze has melted away leaving nothing guarded, nothing shielded away from the public eye like what he does when they argue, and he simply looks  _ carefree.  _

 

Not like he has just fallen off the cliff and is now doomed for the rest of his life because he is fucking in love, for Christ sake’s, Grantaire thinks more to himself than anything. Just--he looks, different. Different, that’s all it is. Just a friendly smile or two at a new face. 

 

Grantaire tries to pay attention to Courfeyrac and Jehan’s sudden arm wrestling tournament on the corner of the stage instead of letting his gaze linger too long on Green Eyes and Enjolras as he leads him around right stage, showing off the flies and the curtains. 

 

He doesn’t do a very good job.

 

**

 

“I, for one, think that Enjolras has  _ a crush.”  _ Courfeyrac announces one afternoon during Social Studies and Grantaire tries not to obviously freeze in his seat.

 

Jehan is a desk ahead of them, nodding along, “Okay, okay, I’m down with this topic. Please continue,  _ Monsieur Courfeyrac _ .”

 

“Your wish is my command, Lady Jehan.” Courfeyrac says with a sly smile that makes Jehan’s cheek turn red. Grantaire feels red, or maybe green, yeah--probably a sick and putrid green. “Here is my proclamation,” Courfeyrac starts, rattling his pencil against the desk, “Enjolras, our stoic and romantically hopeless friend, has a hard on for the stage manager.”

 

Jehan yelps, his grin growing to the point where his face looks scary, “You read my mind,  _ Monsieur. Bravo, bravo.” _

 

Grantaire chokes out, “Enjolras doesn’t have...  _ crushes.  _ Right?” 

Jehan and Courfeyrac both give him an odd look, like what Grantaire is saying sounds like complete garbage which-- _ fair.  _ Grantaire isn’t known for gushing over other people’s lives, romantic or not, and he’s  _ definitely  _ not known to dive into Enjolras’s personal life for any other reason other than to fuck with him. They fight. The argue. Enjolras gets mad and Grantaire grins like an idiot and--and it works. It’s their thing and their thing alone. The one way they have learned to deal with each other around their mutual friends. If someone were to ask either of them whether or not the other was their  _ friend  _ Grantaire has no doubt in his mind they would both give a hard  _ no. _

 

They don’t get along and they’ve stopped trying to after the Uranus disaster project in sixth grade. Grantaire expectd at first to be more annoyed with Enjolras, perfect and polished Enjolras who was probably second smartest to Combeferre but also managed to hold the title of the school’s official fuck up and constant trouble maker, for being so uptight and delusional and hard to get along with and understand and  _ ughh.  _ But, for whatever reason, the only word that comes to mind when Grantaire thinks of Enjolras is utterly and painfully  _ earnest.  _ A perfect specimen to fuck with and rile up with just one conservative statement.

 

He can hardly blame Courfeyrac and Jehan for their confused looks. Hell, even he is surprised he said anything at all pertaining to the the earnest piss head. He clears his throat, “I mean--the guy obviously has his head halfway up his ass at all times trying to find the answer to world peace or some shit. You guys really think he gives two fucks about  _ crushes?” _

 

“He hasn’t before. That’s for sure.” Jehan says, conversationally. “But--there is a first for everything!”

 

“But  _ Matty?”  _ Grantaire says, scrunching up his nose. He isn’t quite sure what is so wrong about Courfeyrac declaring that someone (Enjolras. What the Fuck) likes someone else (And  _ Matty? What. The. Fuck),  _ it isn’t exactly uncommon. Courfeyrac does have a flare for a being dramatic. Plus, Grantaire likes Matty. Over the past couple of weeks he has let Grantaire take almost complete control of the fly system. Hell, he practically made Grantaire in charge of the whole thing. Matty isn’t a bad guy. Matty is nice. Matty has really pretty green eyes and makes Enjolras smile a lot. He also like ham sandwiches. Seriously, the guy eats one like everyday before musical practice.

 

“Why not?” Courfeyrac smiles. “Even Ferre thinks there may be a possibility.”

 

“ _ Ohhhhh,”  _ Jehan coos, biting his lip. “While the show is going on onstage… just behind the curtain true love is  _ transpiring!” _

 

_ True love. Okay--what? _

 

Courfeyrac and Jehan giggle the rest of Social studies while Grantaire tries his best to smile along. If neither of them notice his hands shaking under the desk neither of them mention it later on.

  
  


**

 

“Hey, you know Matty is straight, right?”

 

Grantaire cringes at his own words before Enjolras can even look over at him. When he does though, his mouth is pulled down in a frown and his eyebrows have merged together and are practically one in the same. He cocks his head, revealing a splash of purple that has somehow found its way onto the side of his neck and is just begging to get mixed up into his blonde curls.

 

Good thing Courfeyrac has gotten better at putting his hair in a bun (with Jehan’s help).

 

Enjolras puts the paintbrush down and steps away from the set for a moment. It’s supposed to be a boat, or at least that is what Grantaire has been told, and Feuilly did an amazing job in cutting out the pieces in order to make something that the actors can actually  _ walk  _ on during the scenes, but currently the rest of tech is fucking it up by giving it the worst paint job in human history. Purple? Horrid, fearsome pirate ship? Yeah, that’s gonna work out great onstage.

 

At the moment though it is only him and Enjolras fucking up the paint job while most of the other tech members are sifting through the prop room looking for peg legs, goblets, and whatever else pirates might need while out exploring the sea. (“Pirates need mirrors, right? Sure, how else are they supposed to comb out their greasy hair while out at sea? Sea salt wouldn’t be the most  _ ideal thing  _ to wash your hair with, but--” “Put the bedazzled mirror back, Jehan”)

 

Which is really,  _ really  _ one of the many,  _ many  _ reasons Grantaire shouldn’t be bringing up this topic with Enjolras. Alone. Just the two of them. Or, hey, you know, he couldn’t have brought it up at all? Yep, that would’ve been a smart thing to do. 

 

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras asks, more demands really. Demanding rather than asking is more Enjolras’s ball game. 

 

“Well, you know, I was just thinking,” Grantaire trails off awkwardly, trying to pull both of their attentions back to the boat, but failing epically. He bites his lip and runs the brush along the front of the boat in shaky, jagged lines, “Well--Matty is a nice guy and everything, and well, he gets along with everyone here and…”

 

“He does, doesn’t he.” Enjolras says, returning back to painting the boat. His face is blank, or at least to everyone else it is, but Grantaire has known him long enough to recognize the faint, upward twitch of his lips. “Has he ever told you he is straight?”

 

Grantaire blinks, “What? Um, uh, no? No, but--”

 

“Then how do you know? Why do you even care--” Enjolras pauses. His eyes are already closed as he attempts to compose himself by taking steady breaths.  _ One…. two… three...  _ He opens them, his voice oddly calm, “Assuming someone is something they’ve never even spoken to you about, Grantaire, is extremely rude.” Enjolras says, sounded way more insulted than Grantaire feels he has reason to be. Enjolras leans in and continues to paint, but his brush strokes get more sporadic the longer he talks, “What? Just because he hasn’t said he is gay means he is straight? Is that really how your mind work, Grantaire? Of course, Jehan has to go around with people assuming he is gay--”

 

“Jehan is though.”

 

“Well, yes, but it is still rude just to  _ assume.”  _ Enjolras insists, shaking his head. “Just because  _ you’re  _ straight, Grantaire, doesn’t mean you can just go around proclaiming everyone else you might--”

 

“Enjolras! Fucking hell, calm down!” Grantaire says, slightly exasperated on how furious Enjolras has become in just a couple of short seconds. “Listen, I know you think I’m just the worst person to ever rain on your parade, or whatever, but that doesn’t mean I’m trying to call people out for what they are. I don’t give a shit. To me--people, um… I see it as if you like guys, fine. If you like girls,  _ fine.  _ If you like both or neither-- _ I don’t care!  _ I’m just saying… Matty might be cool with Jehan, but that doesn’t automatically mean he is gay as well.” There is a pause. Enjolras doesn’t look his way and Grantaire clears his throat, “You know that…  _ right Eng?” _

 

Enjolras is finally snapped out of his haze. His face goes stone cold once again, all scowling and glaring, as he returns to furiously painting the boat, “What are you talking about, Grantaire? Why do you  _ even fucking care? _ ”

 

Grantaire blinks and takes a startled step back. Enjolras never swears, not really, he never found the need to and never thought it was cool like most of the other middle school boys do. Why he chooses to now… Grantaire isn’t sure.

 

Enjolras doesn’t give him a chance to answer, probably doesn’t think whatever Grantaire has to say matters, “Get back to work. This set needs to be done by next week and if it isn’t done the blame goes on  _ all of us.”  _ Enjolras says, slamming a bucket of paint down next to Grantaire’s feet. Grantaire doesn’t flinch, doesn’t  _ obviously  _ flinch anyway. “I need to talk to Combeferre. I’ll send Selena or someone out here to help you.”

 

And with that, Enjolras turns on his heels and makes a hasty retreat to the back of left stage towards  _ the shop.  _ Grantaire can’t help but watch him go the whole way there, and  _ fuck. He hates it.  _ He really hates how Enjolras can break him down like that. Can peel away layer after carefully placed layer of his shield just to bare him open for all eyes to see and leave him in the dirt.  _ He hates  _ the want--the need--to follow Enjolras and do  _ something.  _ Perhaps not knowing what he would do is better, it stops his feet from moving against his will. 

 

 _He hates,_ almost as much as he hates himself, how his face falls as he watches Enjolras go. Worry twisting in his gut that really has no right to be there.

  
  


**

 

Opening night is a breeze, somehow. With only ten techies to build and run the whole show, Grantaire decides that they are probably the best fucking tech crew ever to graze the face of the earth. For once no one, not even Enjolras, disagrees with him.

 

After all the actors have taken their bows and the parents are out of their seats applauding, backstage goes wild. Courfeyrac has Jehan in his arms and is spinning the boy (who is the only member of tech allowed to wear ‘a smidge’ of color, aka his flower bandana) around like he is a stuffed animal. Bossuet is climbing on top of the fly system along with Selena (random emo techie who isn’t as bad as Grantaire first thought) and Combeferre’s protest for them to get down is half hearted. Grantaire and the last of the techies (no one knows his name. Still. Whoops) climb on top of the pirate ship Enjolras and Matty had carried off of stage once the lights and curtains went down. 

 

“Toss me the boy, lad!” Grantaire says from the top in the worst pirate accent he can muster, “We’ll trade his limbs for gold doubloons.”

 

“Here they come!” Courfeyrac says while hoisting Jehan’s small frame up and over the pirate ship’s edge. 

 

Jehan scrambles to his feet, laughing so hard there are tears coming out of his eyes. Grantaire pulls him into a hug immediately, unable to keep his own smile off of his face. Feuilly is right there next to them, grinning in his navy blue jumper (“I couldn’t find black. Sorry Courf.” “You are a disgrace to the magically world that is  _ The Theatre _ , Feuilly! For shame. For shame!”).

 

“Only four more shows to go, techies!” Bossuet calls, now half way up the fly system and Combeferre’s demands to  _ get down  _ are becoming less and less playful the farther he ventures up. One, because you’re  _ really  _ not supposed to do that backstage. And two,  _ it’s Bossuet.  _ If anyone can manage to kill themselves on the fly system it’s  _ definitely  _ Bossuet.

 

“Nice work team.” Matty speaks up at Enjolras’ side. Enjolras, who is wearing a headset around his ears with an attached microphone. It flattens down his hair and covers up his freckled ears, but other than that Enjolras looks oddly in charge while also being oddly  _ adorable.  _

 

_ Adorable?  _ Has Grantaire ever used the word  _ adorable  _ without there being newborn kittens around in his life? Fuck.

 

There was only one headset for the show and no one had any problems with giving the headset to the stage manager in order to let the show run smoothly. But, at the last dress rehearsal, Matty had shocked everyone by strolling up to Enjolras, placing the headset firmly over his ears, and smiling softly, “You deserve them more than me. You’re more of the ‘natural leader’ type anyway.”

 

He had said it so fondly, so easily, that even Enjolras couldn’t deny his kind offer and even smiled in return. The exchange made Courfeyrac squeal and Grantaire’s stomach plummet. He didn’t make the situation any better by proclaiming that Enjolras was fulfilling his duty as the ‘backstage monarch’, but at least Enjolras looked at him. Glared at him. Acknowledged him. 

 

Matty claps his hands, getting everyone’s attention, “Be here at five tomorrow to set up and then after the show Selena offered to make us little snacks or something at her place. Come, don’t come, it’s up to you.” Matty says.

 

“Oh, we’re all coming.” Courfeyrac says, wrestling Feuilly into  _ yet another  _ choke hold. “Right Feuilly?”

 

Feuilly chokes out, “Right.”

 

“Enjolras can’t.” Grantaire says, leaping down from the boat and landing roughly on the black, smooth tile backstage. Enjolras, headset still firmly in place, whips his head around to deliver a glare, but Grantaire is still smiling, “He’s got detention.”

 

Combeferre looks displeased, “Again? What happened this time?”

 

Enjolras deflates, looking angry and ready to strike anyone who looks at him the wrong way, “It was--It was a  _ complete misunderstanding--” _

 

“I heard he threw a chair at a kid.” Bossut says, shrugging a bit and hopping off the fly system, barely managing not to get his legs caught in the ropes.

 

“Or, as some of the rumors proclaim,” Jehan begins, smiling, “Did he throw  _ a kid  _ at  _ a chair?” _

 

“The first one.” Grantaire says, laughing despite himself. “The kid was being a little shit, that’s all I can say about the situation.”

 

Enjolras looks crossed, “Not like you were doing anything to back me up, Grantaire--”

 

“What can I say? The kid was being a little bitch. You were yelling. The teacher was throwing hissy fit.” Grantaire says, leaning against Bossuet’s shoulder dramatically like he had gone through some traumatic experience, “It all happened so fast and next thing I knew you  _ magically pulled a chair from out of thin air and went apeshit-- _ ”

 

Before Enjolras can intervene, Combeferre butts in, shaking his head, “Enough. What’s done is done. Enjolras will just have to miss out.”

 

Grantaire can’t help but notice the torn look that crosses Enjolras’s face at Combeferre’s words. Enjolras gets detention all the time. It is sort of a norm for him by now and has never bothered him in the past. Hell, Grantaire usually joins him. For different reasons though, Enjolras usually sees it as ‘fighting against the establishment’ and while he doesn’t necessarily go out looking for trouble--trouble seems to find him anyway.

 

Now though, as Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Selena, and Jehan go out onto the center of the stage to make a ‘mini dog pile’, Enjolras stays behind and takes off the headset, eyeing it warily. He approaches Matty, kind of hesitant, and Grantaire can’t recall a time he ever saw Enjolras look  _ hesitant.  _

 

_ Enjolras. Hesitant. Yeah, no. That’s not a thing. An urban myth… probably. _

 

“Um, you might want these back.” Enjolras says, holding out the headset, his lips curling into frown. “Sorry about tomorrow night. I’ll, um, make it up to you. Promise.”

 

_ Make it up to you…? _

 

Matty just smiles, takes the headset, and then-- _ and then  _ reaches up and ruffles Enjolras’s feather-light, blonde curls, “It’s no problem, sparky. I can appreciate a guy who throws a chair for a noble cause.”

 

And with that, Matty walks off to join Combeferre and Bossuet at the fly system leaving Enjolras frozen, his hands stilled at his sides and his jaw locked and tense. If Grantaire didn’t know him better he would say he looked angry. But Grantaire  _ does know him.  _ Way more than people who don’t consider themselves friends should. 

 

Grantaire barely has time to register the flush creeping up Enjolras’s neck and darting towards his perfect cheekbones before he too is turning around, ignoring the scene he just witnessed and focusing on not thinking too hard about why-- _ oh fucking why it makes him want to curl up into a small ball and--and…  _ yeah.

 

**

 

It becomes apparent to all the techies by the end of musical that Enjolras is head over fucking heels for Matty. Grantaire still can’t decide if him admitting this to himself is making him feel better or way fucking worse about the situation.

 

“So,” Grantaire says, one night after the third show. Him and Enjolras are pushing the curtains back, dusting the bits and pieces of dirt that have gathered their at the bottom from props used during the show. “You and Matty, huh?”

 

Enjolras freezes, “What?”

 

“You know,” Grantaire shrugs, wiping his hands off on his jeans when the curtain is in place. Grantaire isn’t a subtle guy. If there is an elephant in the room he is gonna be the prick to call it out. “Your little--what does Courf call it?-- _ flirtationship?” _

 

Enjolras bristles, “Courfeyrac is having ideas.”

 

“I know, it’s a terrible,  _ terrible  _ thing.” Grantaire says, trying to lighten the mood a bit. “But seriously man, congrats.”

 

“On what?”

 

“You know,  _ going for it,  _ and--and all.” Grantaire says, lamely.

 

Enjolras gives him a blank look, “You don’t think I should.”

 

Grantaire almost chokes on nothing but air, shocked at how blunt Enjolras is being about this. Enjolras is blunt all the time, in class, to his friends, to law enforcement-- _ but this.  _ This is new. “Should? I mean-- _ why not?  _ If anyone can do it it’s you, buddy. You got the whole very intimidating but also sorta appealing in a weird way thing going on for you and… “

 

Enjolras is glaring at him now, his blue eyes piercing him like daggers as Grantaire struggles to keep his casual grin on his face. Enjolras huffs, “I don’t care what you think, Grantaire. You probably think I’m nuts for trying  _ anything.  _ Right? Can’t say I blame you, I’ve met your brother and--”

 

“Wow, wow, hey-- _ this has nothing to do with my assbag of a brother.”  _ Grantaire interjects, looking at Enjolras with wide eyes. Grantaire’s brother is  _ the definition  _ of an assbag. Hell, if Grantaire hadn’t of met Jehan and Bossuet in elementary school he probably would’ve ended up just like him.

 

Out of high school. Jobless. Homophobic. Worthless human being. Assbag. Yeah. 

 

He and Enjolras have been neighbors for a while, not right next to each other, but about a block or so away, so Enjolras has seen some of the crazy, dumb shit his brother has done throughout his high school life. Grantaire almost doesn’t blame Enjolras for pre-judging him for his brother’s actions. He wouldn’t be the first. Seeing your brother arrested for crashing on their neighbor’s trampoline for a week while they were on vacation never fails to make a  _ real impression on some people. _

 

Grantaire deflates, letting out a long sigh, “Listen Enj, I’m not trying to poke fun at you. Alright? I’m just--I’m being,” he swallows, “ _ realistic.  _ This is middle school, hell, high school is going to be ever worse. Kids are shitty, you know that, I just don’t want to to--”

 

“Don’t want to me what Grantaire? Try? Go for something I believe in? That Jehan believes in? If no one is willing to take a stand and go against the heterosexual norm, then  _ who will?”  _ Enjolras barks at him.

 

“Just,” Grantaire says, delicately. He really isn’t trying to get Enjolras mad,  _ he really isn’t,  _ but at the same time--the thought of Enjolras and Matty holding hands, smiling at one another, fingers in each other's hair… “I wouldn’t get my hopes up. If I were you. I’ve seen Matty in other classes, classes you don’t even know he--”

 

“He’s a better person than most people I know, Grantaire.” Enjolras bites out, his cheeks flushing with anger and perhaps a bit of embarrassment. 

 

Enjolras’s words sting. Only Enjolras has the capability to make words, inanimate objects, hurt like a bitch. Grantaire bites back the pain, scowling, “Fine then. Do whatever the hell you want, Enjolras. I’m  _ so very sorry for--” _

 

“Why do you even  _ care? What have you ever cared about when it comes to me?”  _ Enjolras practically yells, and Grantaire has never been more thankful for the soundproof door leading to  _ the shop.  _ Someone definitely would’ve heard them by now if it wasn’t there.

 

Grantaire opens his mouth, but no words tumble out. He ends up looking astray, his mouth slowly coming back together as Enjolras continues glowering at him. Grantaire eventually shake his head, his voice coming out way too quiet, “I’m just--”  _ I don’t want to see you hurt. I don’t want to see Matty’s fingers in your hair. I don’t.  _ “I guess I don’t care. Do whatever you want,  _ Razzy _ . My input has never stopped you before.”

 

Grantaire drops the rest of the curtain and turns away, not waiting to see if Enjolras is looking at him or even calling out to him as he exits the auditorium.

  
  


**

 

Despite their altercation, Courfeyrac still teases Enjolras about Matty constantly, Jehan writes him little poems, Combeferre throws him knowing smiles whenever Enjolras blushes at something Matty said to him, hell, even Feuilly and Bossuet give him thumbs up whenever Matty bumps him playfully on the shoulder or  _ ruffles his hair.  _ (Grantaire really can’t get that imagine out of his head. Matty’s fingers imbedded into Enjolras’s curls  _ like they fucking belong there--) _

 

He tries to joke along. Raise his eyebrows at Enjolras whenever his gaze holds on Matty too long. ‘Plan out their wedding’ with Jehan during their study hall. Shit like that. And mostly he has everyone fooled. Maybe not Enjolras, but fooling himself is good enough for now (he feels sick most nights after shows).

 

And then, suddenly and abruptly, Matty is gone. The moment musical ends, it seems as though Enjolras’s little crush on Matty ends as well.

 

Grantaire wishes he could be happy about it. Wishes that he didn’t see the pain in Enjolras’s eyes when Matty suddenly stopped eating with them at lunch, stopped hanging out with them after school--pretty much joined a whole new friend group in general and left them in the dust. It would be easier to be happy about it instead of secretly wishing he had done more to prevent it from escalating in the first place. So much easier just to feel sweet  _ relief  _ that the guy with green eyes that shined brighter than Grantaire’s ever would is finally out of his (and Enjolras’s) life… but nothing is ever that simple. Pain and then instant relief isn’t a  _ real thing,  _ not in the real world.

 

No one asks Enjolras about it, no one dares to. Enjolras, even while in eighth grade, is still a force to be reckoned with. Enjolras returns to his normal, cool demeanor and stays that way up till high school. Matty gets sent to live with a new foster family and Feuilly manages to find a way to get a family willing to take him that live close enough to the school district so he is still eligible to go there. 

 

Enjolras never talks about Matty again, or any crush at all really. He becomes a lifeless statue once again, blocking out all feelings and completely forgetting about the whole mess in eighth grade. Everyone lets him forget without a word. No one needs to be taken aside and explained to what happened. The look on Enjolras’s face for the next couple of weeks after Matty’s disappearance is telling enough.

 

No one talks to Enjolras about it, not even Combeferre, not even Grantaire. Especially Grantaire.

 

Though Grantaire will never,  _ ever in his entire life,  _ bring up the incident again, he still wonders faintly if that was it. Enjolras hasn’t shown the slightest bit of interest in anyone since and even though with years of knowing Enjolras Grantaire knows he has moved on from a stupid middle school crush, he still wonders if that was like Enjolras’s ‘test run’. One crush and done for the rest of his life. Enjolras would be the dumbass to try something once, hate it, and pretend like it doesn’t exist for the rest of his life.

 

Well, he’d either ignore it or fight it. And while Enjolras could probably stop a storm if he was angry enough, even Enjolras can’t stop the horrible thing that is wild teenage hormones.

 

Sure, as the years go by Grantaire notices Enjolras going home with people by himself, having dinner with others, and so on. But  _ Enjolras? Having a crush? Having romantic feelings for another living mortal? _

 

After eighth grade, that goes back to being a myth that could never happen. Not in real life, anyway. 

  
Oh well, one less thing Grantaire can get his hopes up for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LIKE I MENTIONED AT THE BEGINNING... this chapter is a setup to something BIGGER. Just be patience young ones.


	3. The First Time... he had a 'birthday'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire finds out when Enjolras's birthday is.  
> Shit goes down involving pickles, water balloons, and greenhouses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a day late. I've already failed my every two week posting thingy challenge. Whoops. Here it is though.
> 
> Just to clarify, this is the first time Grantaire has 'celebrated' Enjolras's birthday. Not Enjolras's actual first birthday. Duh.
> 
> Warnings: Lot of fucking swearing. Sorry.

Enjolras wakes Grantaire up pretty much every fucking day to go to school and it’s  _ annoying as hell.  _ Nothing about the blonde sneaking into his room twenty minutes before the bus is supposed to arrive to haul their asses to school is fun. Especially when every single fucking morning you can bet your ass Grantaire is definitely not even close to being ready. Hell, he’s not even out of fucking bed.

 

Enjolras will resort to throwing things, shaking Grantaire until he mumbles that he might be alive, and even lately he has resorted to yanking Grantaire’s feet and trying to  _ drag  _ him out of bed while Grantaire just tightens his hold on the headboard. Yep,  _ all Freaky Friday style. _

 

It’s routine though, and even though it annoys the shit out of Grantaire to the point where he contemplates smothering Enjolras’s pretty, perfect face with his pillow--not to mention it probably annoys the shit out of Enjolras at times as well, they both know Grantaire would never even dream of making the school bus on time if it weren’t for Enjolras yelling, usually an assortment of colorful,  _ Enjolras-y  _ things:

 

“You are the fucking laziest person I know. You know that Grantaire, right? Seriously-- _ fucking seriously-- _ the bus will be here in five minutes and-- _ you know what.  _ I’m leaving. Goodbye. Have fun at a community college.”

 

He has left before, but usually it’s just more whining and bitching that gets Grantaire to eventually get up. Enjolras’s speciality.

 

“You’re the heaviest sleeper I know. When the hell do you go to bed at night? I’ll call Combeferre, don’t think I won’t.”

 

Enjolras is relentless when threatening people. He has  _ Combeferre’s number.  _ He practically holds the world in his palm.

 

“Grantaire. I have scissors.” Enjolras even snipped them close to his ear to let him know at the time. “Real, sharp,  _ fucking scissors.  _ If you don’t get up in two fucking seconds and make me late for the bus  _ I’m cutting your hair.” _

 

Grantaire had a bald spot on the back of his head for a while, but eventually Jehan was able to cut his hair in a way that covered it and made it so his curls didn’t always block his vision.

 

“That’s it.  _ That. Is. Fucking. It.  _ I’m stealing your signed Halsey CD. I don’t even like the-- _ the band _ , or whatever, but it’s not like you're even going to notice it’s  _ gone.  _ You’re probably gonna--”

 

Grantaire had gotten out of bed pretty quick that day. And probably tackled Enjolras to the ground. Who knows?

 

So, to sum it all up, Enjolras is an asshole. And yes, Grantaire is still completely head over fucking heels for the idiot.

 

***

 

Enjolras is pretty much a Class A asshole, if Grantaire really thinks about it. Enjolras is the epitome of a walking statue--cold and beautiful in every single aspect. He is rude, harsh, and careless when it comes to interacting with others. Sure, he can move an entire city with his words and emotions without breaking a sweat, but altercation is where Enjolras ultimately lacks in the talent department. Fighting, arguments--there all foreign to him. Not so much foreign more… lack of ability to understand when to back the fuck off. That probably has something to do with the fact that Enjolras is incapable of backing down, ever. A gun could be pointed right in between his pretty, blue eyes and Enjolras wouldn’t even flinch, would never break down and confess to something he didn’t believe. 

 

So yeah, you’d think an idiot who gets himself into the stupidest, shittiest situations by walking around preaching about a ‘new world’ would be the loneliest fucker alive. 

 

Enjolras, surprisingly enough though, is as close to The Cause as he is with his friends. He treats them with the respect they deserve, respect he feels every human being should be granted, and doesn’t pretend like he is above anyone. To him his voice and passion are just assets he uses to push them all forwards, towards some imaginary finish line where flower and rainbows lie apparently. Another side that Grantaire can’t see, let alone imagine. That doesn’t mean he’ll ever stop following Enjolras until he finds it though. Even if Grantaire thinks he never will… he’ll never stop following him.

 

Enjolras, despite his uptight behavior and lack of social skills, doesn’t demand much from his friends. He puts up with their shenanigans with a stern face, never voicing his opinion whenever he thinks that “yes, stealing Mrs. Henderson’s cat and shaving it  _ would  _ be a terrible idea, Courfeyrac”--and other things.

 

Enjolras’s tolerance is high, surprisingly, and he has a short list of  _ fucking dont’s  _ that are strictly to be followed no matter what. Amongst those, and probably the one that Grantaire understands the least, is the mention of his birthday.

 

A birthday. One fucking day out of the year where you celebrate getting  _ one year  _ closer to death. Grantaire can’t particularly say he  _ likes it,  _ but Jehan’s angel food cake is always worth the hassle of Bahorel and Courfeyrac showering him in confetti and taking turns tossing him over their shoulders and running around like a couple maniacs.  

 

He never asks Enjolras why he hated birthdays. He probably just assumes that Enjolras would say something dumb like ‘it reminds me of another year I have lived where the patriarchy  _ is not  _ destroyed’ or ‘it’s a capitalist holiday following a calendar that humans made up to make up for our need to track time’ blah blah blah ‘it’s not real’ blah blah blah ‘social construct’ blah. In short, Grantaire just doesn’t fucking care. If Enjolras is too prideful and refuses to believe he is an actual human being with an actual birthday--who is Grantaire to stop him?

 

Then junior year, sometime during the beginning of January, Bossuet and his big fucking unlucky mouth let the date slip. Enjolras’s birth date.

 

It all clicked and suddenly Grantaire couldn’t stop the short bursts of laughter erupting from him before Bossuet hurriedly pulled him away and out of earshot from the other group to explain why Enjolras had a strict ‘no celebrating my fucking birthday or I’ll cut off your tongue’ rule. 

 

He didn’t need to explain, not really. Grantaire got it immediately and once he found out he knew this whole ‘rule’ Enjolras had been strictly enforcing was surely not going to apply to him. 

 

Because of course,  _ of fucking course,  _ of all days in the year, Enjolras’s would fall on  _ fucking Valentine’s Day.  _

 

***

 

“I’ve warned you. Yes?”

 

“You have.”

 

“Multiple times?”

 

“Many multiples, yes.”

 

“And, just to clarify for your sake, I did  _ explicitly  _ inform you that he will rip each finger off of each of your hands with his teeth if you do this. I did specify that. Yes?”

 

Grantaire just smiles, wide and devious, “You did. Loud and fucking clear.”

 

“Well then,” Courfeyrac says, wrapping his arms around himself and shrugging, “there is no more wisdom I can grant upon you, young jedi. This path if your own now and you will walk it alone.”

 

Grantaire quirks his eyebrow, “Really Courf. You’re not gonna help me with this?” When Courfeyrac shakes his head, Grantaire turns towards Jehan lounging in the library’s bean bag chair, “Jehan?”

 

Jehan only shakes his head and even throws up a vulcan salute, “May the force be with you.”

 

Eponine snorts, shaking her head from the sofa, “You’re a disgrace, Jehan. This is why everyone hates America.”

 

“Jehan not being able to tell the difference between Star Trek and Star Wars because he is an uncultured swine?” Courfeyrac asks, smile hinting at the corner of his lips. 

 

Eponine nods, “Precisely.”

 

Jehan shrugs, “Whoops.”

 

“Guys,” Grantaire says, flopping back against the armrest of the chair, “ _ none of you are going to help me with this.  _ Really? Bossuet finally fucks up and tells everyone the piss-head’s birthday and we’re not gonna do anything about it?”

 

Jehan blinks, “Courfeyrac already knew.”

 

Courfeyrac says, “Enj only trusted me and Ferre with the ‘top secret information’. Bossuetonly knows because he just happened to be around when Enjolras’s mom was discussing what Enj wanted to do for his birthday because he is an unlucky fuck. I took an oath. Sorry R, I’m out. Gonna have to piss off Enjolras on your own. Don’t worry, you’re a natural at it.”

 

Well yeah, but seeing others appreciate his art of ‘fucking up Enjolras’s life’ really made it all worth it in the end. That, and Enjolras’s reaction to whatever stupid shit he pulled. He cranes his neck and looks up at Eponine, “Ep, be my right hand man. My Robin to my Batman. My--”

 

“Lost me when you just stated that  _ I  _ would be Robin in this relationship.” Eponine says, shuffling her book on her lap. “Besides, seeing Enjolras get all pissy and mad is fun and all. But if even  _ Courfeyrac,  _ yes the same Courfeyrac who thought it would be a good idea to start a ‘controlled fire’ in the parking lot  just to freak Bossuet out on the day he presented his project about Johnny Cash, is not getting into this then I’m sure as hell not. Enjolras may be a naive idiot at times, but the tall son of bitch could probably kill someone with his gazelle legs if he tried.”

 

Grantaire huffs, “You’re not fun, T. Jehan? Really? Come on… we’ll just-- _ I don’t know--  _ pile a bunch of candy hearts in his locker or something and--”

 

“Birthdays are on Enjolras’s  _ don’t fuck around with  _ list.”

 

Grantaire snorts.

 

“You do know he is our friend, right? Your’s too and vice versa.” Jehan says, looking a little too pleased with himself. “I think sometimes you two forget that.”

 

Grantaire snorts again, loudly this time and actually startles a laugh out of Eponine.

 

Jehan rolls his eyes, looking back down at his book, “I respect the list.” 

 

“Show me this so-called list.”

 

“It is invisible and only appears whenever Courfeyrac spends a month’s worth of his allowance on confetti and party favors whenever a person’s birthday is coming up.” Jehan explains. The image of Enjolras wincing when Courfeyrac runs around throwing balloons and wrapping paper everywhere goes through Grantaire’s mind and he can’t help but scowl.

 

“You got a week, Grand R. Better get workin’.” Eponine jokes, running her ink-stained hands through Grantaire’s curls, probably taking a few ringlets with her when she eventually pulls away.

 

Grantaire huffs, “You guys are missing out.”

 

“Mhmm. I’ll remember that when we all watch in silence as Enjolras tears each stupid curl out of your fat head.” Eponine says, grinning like a cat. Jehan and Courfeyrac laugh and Grantaire rolls his eyes, strangely used to Eponine’s creative, and disturbing, imagination.

 

***

 

It was all about how Grantaire approaches this, he decides. It’s Enjolras’s birthday, a thing he thought was a myth until a couple days ago, and it’s on Valentine’s day. Easily one of the most idiotic and capitalist holidays known to man. Or so Enjolras has told him.

 

Grantaire can already  _ easily  _ come up with five different scenarios where Enjolras was cursing the holiday out for it’s unneeded existence. In at least two of those scenarios Marius was there, looking dejectedly at at a present he had spent hours picking out for Cosette. It was easy to assume before that Enjolras was just a prideful bastard and didn’t want to make a big deal about being another year older, but now it all makes sense. Enjolras has a personal vendetta against his own fucking birthday and it is the most beautiful thing Grantaire has ever heard.

 

But, back to his approach, he has two ways to fuck Enjolras up on this day. One, he could be a dramatic bastard about it and lavish him in candy hearts, pink ribbons, cover his shower in red rose petals so he can’t wash his high maintenance hair (it wouldn’t be hard either. Enjolras and him lived around three houses away from another and sneaking in through Enjolras’s window two stories up seemed second nature by now), and a bunch of other lovey-dovey Valentine things that Enjolras has obviously been trying to avoid for most of his life.

 

Or, and this is a big, fat fucking  _ or,  _ Grantaire could actually celebrate Enjolras’s birthday. You know, treat Enjolras like he isn’t some alien or God from another world that is too perfect to be touched by mere mortals and actually has  _ a real fucking birthday. _

 

The idea came from Jehan five days before Enjolras’s birthday when he caught Grantaire at the end of  his World Myth class, cutting him off in the middle of his rant about how he was going to someone find a way to tie dandelions and roses into Enjolras’s hair when he is asleep. 

 

“I mean,” Jehan says, shrugging his shoulders. “you could just actually give him a birthday instead of, you know, going through all the trouble of tying flowers into Enjolras’s hair.”

 

“What’s the fun in doing that?”

 

“Think about it. Enjolras has been hiding his birthday from all of us since… however long each of us have known him, minus Courfeyrac and Combeferre.... And Bossuet. Mind you this is Enjolras--the same Enjolras who is so blunt and honest about everything the sometimes I wish the guy knew how to keep some things to himself.”

 

Grantaire shrugs, “Your point?”

 

“My point is that he’s never had, like,  _ a real  _ birthday with his friends and such. And something tells me getting gifts from him parents isn’t something Enjolras would ever consider  _ fun  _ or  _ enjoyable. _ Combeferre even told me that he, as his best friend, is forbidden to give him anything. Same goes for Courfeyrac.”

 

Grantaire scrunches his eyebrows together at the thought. He had never thought about it that way. Something in his brain just assumed that Enjolras was too good for birthdays and didn’t give two shits about not getting showered with love and gifts from his friends. He never took into consideration that maybe… just maybe…

 

He shakes his head, “So you want me to get him some fancy gift? Like a friend would? Just to fuck with him?”

 

Jehan smiles, a knowing smile like he fucking knows something Grantaire won’t be able to understand in a million years, “Sure R. Mess with Enjolras by getting him something he enjoys for his birthday. After all, birthdays are on Enjolras’  _ don’t fuck with  _ list. You might piss him off more by getting him something he actually  _ likes.” _

 

And with that, Jehan turns down a different hallway, waving goodbye to Grantaire over his shoulder. Grantaire stills, looking back at him, “What the fuck, Jehan? How the hell am I supposed to know what the piss-head likes?”

 

Pictures of miniature figures of the eiffel tower and the French flag wafting gracefully in the wind appear in Grantaire’s mind when he thinks of the words  _ Enjolras  _ and  _ likes. _

 

Jehan smiles, “Don’t think too hard about it. You eat lunch with him every fucking day. You two know each other more than you think.”

 

Grantaire is left confused and a little annoyed with the strawberry blonde, tie-dyed idiot but decides to push off questioning him till after school. He goes through the rest of the day thinking, not his level of expertise--well, he can think, sure. But thinking about useful stuff? Yeah, no--but at least he tries thinking up things that Enjolras actually  _ likes. _

 

He decides, while in the middle of the hallway heading to lunch, that it’s Enjolras’s fault he draws almost a complete blank on what the idiot actually enjoys in this world. Mostly because the guy  _ hates too much shit  _ in the world. Literally. By the time Grantaire reaches their usual lunch table his list of things Enjolras hates--capitalism, republicans, white people, the Winter Olympic sport  _ curling _ , the patriarchy, just the the Winter Olympic Sport games in general, Grantaire definitely, probably occasionally (definitely) Marius, mini golf, the second amendment, Christopher Columbus, having to use number 2 pencils whenever they have testing instead of pens, the color burgandy--and it just so happens to be ten time longer than the things Enjolras likes--France, being right. 

 

He sits down, feeling a little pissed at himself for not being able to just ask Enjolras, or even Combeferre, without being too suspicious. Enjolras is already talking near the middle of the table, no surprise there, and-- _ there’s another thing to add to the list!  _ Talking. Enjolras fucking loves talking. How Grantaire can wrap that up in a pretty, little gift just to piss Enjolras off--Grantaire has no idea.

 

It isn’t until lunch is halfway over that Jehan catches his eye from across the table. Grantaire raises his eyebrows at him questionally before Jehan pulls a jar of pickles out of his lunch bag and shoves it down the table right-- _ right into Enjolras’s hands.  _ Enjolras doesn’t stop his angry rant, doesn’t even pull his eyes away from Combeferre, just reaches out and blindly takes hold of the lid. He unscrews the lid and wastes no time taking a huge bite of the pickle, ignoring the juice that squirts all over his plate below him. 

 

It takes a while for Grantaire to meet Jehan’s eyes again, but when he does Jehan is giving him a smug look and once again Grantaire remembers never to underestimate the little guy-- _ ever. _

 

And that is how he ends up getting home from school and immediately researching  _ funny recipes with pickles. _

  
  


***

 

Or, at least, it was  _ supposed  _ to be funny. 

 

Grantaire figures making a recipe relating to Enjolras’s beloved and unhealthy obsession with pickles and making it turn out so bad that even he can’t scarf them down is the prime idea for fucking up Enjolras’s birthday. Gosh, Grantaire is a genius, or at least he feels like he is for a while until he stumbles upon a couple recipes that actually…  _ actually look pretty fucking amazing.  _ Grantaire would never be the first one to admit he isn’t half bad in the kitchen--he’d save that job for his friends that make him make his infamous white macadamia nut cookies whenever Enjolras is feeling angsty and decides to have a bake sale for  _ the public.  _

 

Now though as he stares at his screen eyeing a certain recipe that look absolutely mouth-watering while biting his lip nervously, he can’t help imagining the same pleased look on Enjolras’s face whenever he brings him cookies for his stupid bake sale or whatever only  _ bigger  _ because, you know,  _ they’d be pickles.  _

 

He is so pathetic. 

 

More pathetic than Marius.

 

He makes the recipe with the pickles.

 

… and then finds two more.

 

Only two of the three of them even has pickles! The last one he finds on some shitty vegan website that claim to be able to make  _ vegan friendly  _ french toast and, well, Grantaire can’t  _ not  _ see if they were bluffing or not. 

 

They weren’t.

 

He ends up planning to make enough french toast for three people and piling them up all onto a plate that he intends to drench in sugar-free syrup next to another plate that will have fried pickle poppers covered in some fancy ranch dressing that’ll probably take Grantaire three tries to perfect and a jar full of refrigerated garlic dill pickles that will have more spices than Grantaire can count and not only claims to be vegan, but gluten free and sugar free. Enjolras is going to lose his shit. Grantaire grins.

 

It is a weird combination, especially for breakfast, but Grantaire is positive Enjolras’s strange addiction to pickles will pull through and make this the best damn breakfast anyone has ever made him.  

 

_ Ha, take that. _

 

***

 

Grantaire wakes up early on a Saturday. A Saturday! But hey, Valentine’s day will fall whenever it fucking wants to and there is nothing Grantaire can do about that--not that he minds too much in the end though. He is too frazzled and pent up with nerves to sleep properly. Having to wake up early is more of a blessing than a punishment it turns out. 

 

He shimmies downstairs, careful to creep past his father and brother’s room. The last things he needs is to ruin this day by letting his father find out he got up at sixty thirty in the morning to  _ bake.  _ He can almost hear his brother’s shrill, horrid laugh when he enters the kitchen.

 

The fried poppers need to be, well,  _ fried  _ in order to not taste like shit on a stick and Grantaire is quick to get the job done. While they’re cooking he checks in the fridge at least three times and eyes the jar full of pickles and spices wearily. He hasn’t tried them--pickles never were his favorite food--but even to his eyes they look fucking disgusting. Oh well, they’re for Enjolras, if he doesn’t like him that doesn’t sound like his fucking problem.

 

He premade the french toast last night and prayed that heating them back up in the oven  _ and then  _ drizzling syrup on them would make them just as good as they were the night before. He pulls the french toast out of the oven a couple minutes later and takes a bite out of one. He was right,  _ thank God.  _

 

It isn’t until everything is perfectly cooked, cooled, chilled, and  _ whatever else  _ that he starts packing everything up. He wraps the plates up in two layers of foil before putting them carefully into a bag his father uses to keep his tubs of worms cold whenever he goes finishing (yes, he washed it out around six times even though his father has only gone finishing probably twice in his entire life) and tucks a carton of orange juice with a few plastic cups and the jar of pickles next to them. 

 

It’s not until he’s zipping up the bag and pearing at the flashing red numbers on the stove that read 7:03 a.m. that it  _ hits him.  _ Like,  _ really hits him.  _ Like a freight train that is late for its next stop. He finds himself taking a step back and realizing just what the fuck he is doing. It’s like someone has rammed a bucket of  _ open your fucking eyes dumbass  _ on his head and it leaves him cold and confused.

 

He, Grantaire, archnemesis of Enjolras and vice versa, is bringing Enjolras, golden, piss-head with an ego big enough to kill a small child,  _ breakfast.  _ For his Birthday. On Valentine’s day. 

 

He hates that the first thought to cross his mind is:  _ Can I literally be anymore fucking gay? _

 

He drops the bag and makes a hasty retreat to his phone on the counter, adamant on calling Jehan and asking him how the fuck he did it. How the fuck did the little, clever devil trick him into this without him even knowing?! He calls three times--no answer. Jehan never was a morning person, surprisingly enough, he liked the night way more than most people would think. Still, that doesn’t make Grantaire any less pissed about him not answering.

 

He  _ is such an idiot.  _ And he almost did it too! He almost fucking crawled through Enjolras’s window at the peak of dawn and given him a breakfast that only someone as weird as Enjolras would’ve liked. He can already feel his cheeks heating up at the idea. 

 

It’s all Jehan’s fault, that is one thing Grantaire is for sure on. The strawberry blonde has powers that are out of this world and has tricked Grantaire without even trying. Even now, Jehan’s words echo in Grantaire’s head,  _ “Sure R. Mess with Enjolras by getting him something he enjoys for his birthday.”  _ Grantaire grinds his teeth at the memory of Jehan’s knowing smile, _ “You might piss him off more by getting him something he actually likes.” _

 

Yeah,  _ might.  _ More like you might as well spell out for him in big, broad letters that  _ hey, I. Want. To. Suck. Your. Dick.  _

 

Grantaire is two seconds away from calling it quits and throwing the poppers away and shoving the orange juice back into the fridge and coming up with some weird, flowery shit to shove into Enjolras’s locker on Monday when something else Jehan had said echoes through his mind,  _ “My point is that he’s never had, like, a real birthday with his friends and such.” _

 

Enjolras has never had a birthday. Not a  _ real  _ one, anyway. He is so moved by the thought that instead of opening the drawer to his trash can, he pulls open the junk drawer next to it.

 

_ “Don’t think too hard about it. You two know know each other more than you think.” _

 

Grantaire lets out a long, drawn out sigh that basically means he is already one hundred percent on board to do whatever stupid thing that is running through his head. It’s only when his eyes land on specific bag left over from one of Courfeyrac’s summer parties that is stuffed deep into the back of the junk drawer that an idea pops into his mind. The idea sucks, and Enjolras is probably going to kill him three times as much because of it, but it is all Grantaire’s got to push him to go give the idiot his stupid pickle poppers.

 

***

 

Grantaire has never really put in much thought about how close Enjolras lives to him. Three houses down, to be exact. It’s just--he’s always been there. It doesn’t make Grantaire feel uneasy or weird knowing that the idiot is always so close to him. All it’s ever meant really is awkward, and something not so awkward if Grantaire actually closes his fucking mouth and doesn’t piss Enjolras off, walks home from school, convenient car-pooling, and crawling through each other’s windows when they’re bored.

 

Sure, Grantaire obviously wasn’t ever going to be Enjolras’s first choice to rant to whenever something pissed him off. But Combeferre couldn’t spend his whole life listening to Enjolras rage over the phone whenever an injustice arose. Grantaire can’t pinpoint the moment when Enjolras first came in through his window and shook Grantaire awake in order to tell him about ‘how to school was getting rid of the peanut-free table once and for all like a bunch of animals’ (or something along those lines) or when it became so normal that Grantaire’s heart didn’t speed up whenever Enjolras popped in unannounced. But it was normal, and Grantaire wasn’t about to make showing up at each other’s houses awkward any time soon.

 

Or… maybe he is. Right now. On Enjolras’s birthday.

 

He winces at the thought as he approaches Enjolras’s house, bucket and bag full of food in each hand. He sneaks into the backyard like always and makes his way towards the clear greenhouse. Grantaire never did really stop making fun of Enjolras’s for having _a real greenhouse_ in his backyard. Of course he always tried to persuade Grantaire that it was his family’s, but Grantaire could tell when Enjolras was lying sometimes. The greenhouse was dumb and made Enjolras look like more of a health nut than he probably was, but in the end the damn thing played a vital role in getting Grantaire up into Enjolras’s room.

 

Grantaire, like the good fucking person he is, had a room on the first floor leaving the amount of climbing Enjolras had to do shaved down to the bare minimum. Enjolras on the other hand had to play fucking Rapunzel and have his room be on the second floor. It was a pain to get up there at first, but over the years Grantaire has gotten used to it.

 

He scales the clear greenhouse, careful not to make too much noise and wake up Enjolras’s parents or some shit like that until he is on the top of the flat roof, bag and bucket in hand. He reaches up towards the window that is just a little more than a foot above how tall the greenhouse is and thanks whatever God there is that the window starts to open without complaint. 

 

Enjolras is a dumb fuck a leave his window open so carelessly. Oh well, less work for Grantaire to have to deal with.

 

He throws the bag in first, positive that Enjolras is still asleep. If he wasn’t them he would’ve been within Grantaire’s view, hunched over his desk with a scowl on his face. The bucket goes next, but Grantaire is a little more careful with that one, not wanting to let it accidently fall out and ruin everything. It isn’t until he hoists himself up and over the windowsill where he sits to catch his breath that he sees him. His bed is on the opposite side of the room and up against a wall, but even with the minimal light that the morning is offering him, he can still see Enjolras’s shining hair sticking out from underneath the covers. 

 

He is almost smiling by the time he realizes he has probably been staring for a little too long. If staring at someone while they’re asleep and watching their chest rise and fall in careful, slow motions isn’t the very definition of creeper than Grantaire really doesn’t know what is.

 

He hesitates, if only for a moment, before reaching down into the bucket and carefully extracting a honest-to-God water balloon that is bigger than his hand. The idea is stupid,  _ so fucking stupid,  _ but throwing a water balloon at someone you’ve been crushing on since freshman year may just get that person to believe that you totally, absolutely  _ haven’t been crushing on them since freshman year  _ when you bring them breakfast on their birthday _.  _ It’s worth a try, and Grantaire only hesitates once before hopping off that window sill and chucking the water balloon directly at the puff of blonde sticking out from underneath the covers.

 

The water balloon fucking  _ explodes.  _ It goes everywhere and drenches Enjolras’s bed, his blue duvet, and even some parts of the floor and wall before Enjolras can even so much as gasp in shock. He bolts upright, his mouth agape and his hair a wet rag on top of his head. Grantaire barely holds back a laugh when Enjolras’s bright, vicious eyes land on him.

 

“Jesus Enj,” Grantaire says, grin visible and proud on his face as he extracts his phone, unable not to get  few pictures. “I’ve been trying to wake your ass up for the past, like,  _ twenty minutes.  _ God. Too bad you’re just  _ such a heavy sleeper.” _

 

Enjolras blinks all throughout Grantaire’s little schmeil like he is trying to decipher if he is actually in the real world or not. Something tells Grantaire he is going to be pissed either way. Enjolras’s scrunches up his nose, droplets falling down from the bridge of it as he attempts to rub out some water that got up his nose,  _ “ _ Gr _ \--” sneeze,  _ “taire… “

 

“Come on, E. You didn’t think I’d miss your birthday, did you?” Grantaire says, swinging his foot innocently with his hands behind his back. Enjolras is fuming now and Grantaire can barely hold back a smile.  _ Yes.  _ “It’s the most magical day that only comes once a year. A day to celebrate your birth and the happiness and love of others around you. What a treat. Best not to waste it--”

 

“What  _ the fuck?!”  _ Enjolras isn’t even trying to keep his voice down. Water is still dribbling down into his eyes, completely ruining his signature  _ glare stare,  _ or whatever he does. He wipes them away with the back of his head and Grantaire takes that moment to come up beside him and takes a selfie with him and Enjolras for courfeyrac’s sake, before grabbing the bag and saunter towards Enjolras’s bed.

 

He lays the bag down on Enjolras’s soaked lap before he can throw them away in an angry haze. And, because Enjolras has never liked the rain and currently looks like a wet, sad dog, Grantaire can’t resist shuffling the hair on top of his head, sending water sprinkling over the both of them. The close proximity has shed a new light to the situation for Grantaire. A horrible new light that has Grantaire’s eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. That being Enjolras’s very thin white t-shirt that is now soaked and,  _ fuck, seethrough.  _

 

Plan backfired.  _ Aborpt.  _ Abandon  _ fucking ship. _

 

Luckily Enjolras takes that moment to shove him away, nearly knocking him down, before spitting out, “You fucking dick.”

 

“I could argue with you on that. But one, it’s true. And two,  _ who wants to argue with the birthday boy?”  _

 

This time Enjolras actually chucks his pillow at him, and Grantaire barely dodges before making his way back to the window and giving Enjolras one last salute, “Enjoy your present, Apollo.”

 

And, with that, Grantaire drop down on top of the greenhouse and makes his way home, a weird feeling swelling up deep in his chest.

 

***

 

Enjolras, while an irrational idiot that Grantaire can’t help but mock sometimes, is, generally, a reasonable guy. He will fight for what he believes in and dismantle what he doesn’t without a second thought. Revenge though--Grantaire never would’ve guessed that idiot blonde who was able to come up with a two hour speech on the violation of meat packing plants overnight would’ve had it in him.

 

Once again, Enjolras continues to inspire and amaze Grantaire.

 

So, yeah, Grantaire really can’t complain when for the next month and half whenever Enjolras comes to wake him he is instantly greeted with a bucket full of cold ice water running down in back and trailing over his head. Enjolras isn’t even merciful enough to put it in a balloon either because he’s a relentless asshole.

 

He does eat all of the fried pickle poppers though. And learns how to make the french toast recipe by heart and makes them about once every couple months whenever the whole group gets together.

 

And, if Grantaire starts passing him jars of pickles with fancy spices in them during lunch instead of Jehan…. well, no calls them out on it.

 

He still fucking hates his birthday though. No surprise there. But that doesn’t mean Grantaire doesn’t stop celebrating it. Every year ends up being more crude and memorable and  _ fucking weirder  _ than the last. The waterballoon, much to Enjolras’s chagrin,  _ definitely  _ becomes a recurring theme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still taking prompts :)


	4. The First Time... they were stuck together... literally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire find themselves stuck together. Literally.
> 
> Also, Gav is a shitty (but we all still love him) kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Warnings unless you have a fucking problem with swearing.

_ Five minutes... _

 

Grantaire sprints forward, not that it really helps him much in the end. He still feels his right arm being jerked forward causing him to stumble in a horrid attempt to keep up. The pain escalating from his wrist to his shoulder doesn’t dissipate until Gavroche, who has someone hoisted himself far enough up the mantle that even  Enjolras  can’t reach him, speaks, “One more move,” his eyes narrow and Grantaire faintly forgets that the kid is twelve fucking years old. The slim, silver key dangles dangerously near his lips, “and it’s gone.”

 

Suddenly they are in a standoff. Gavroche, the fucking shitty twelve year old, against him and Enjolras.  _ Shit. _

 

Enjolras is fuming. Nothing new there. But even when Enjolras loses his shit Grantaire likes to keep up a couple feet of space in between them just in case he, you know, bursts into flames or something. Now though, Grantaire is stuck awkwardly behind him, the medal linked around his wrist digging uncomfortably into his skin. Grantaire has never been kinky, or at least as far as he’s concerned… Eponine would probably know if Grantaire ever asked her. Eponine, while a feisty bitch, knew more about Grantaire than whoever the fuck decided that what the world needed was  _ his delightful presence.  _ Yep, she would probably be able to explain why/how Grantaire was in handcuffs right now and not being arrested… or in a bedroom.

 

Handcuffs. Attached to  _ Enjolras. With handcuffs.  _ Grantaire gulps.

 

_ “Gavroche,”  _ Enjolras starts, obviously trying and failing to keep his cool. If Grantaire wasn’t as freaked out as Enjolras was mad he may have even rolled his eyes at him.  _ “Give. Me. The key. Now.” _

 

Grantaire tenses up, but Gavroche just smirks from his spot upon one of the mantle’s tallest shelves. You know, the very mantle Eponine had told him  _ not  _ to climb on when she dropped the bundle of trouble off at Enjolras’s apartment only twenty minutes ago.  _ Fuck, why had Grantaire agreed to help Enjolras babysit the little monster?  _ Grantaire knew Gavroche practically half of the boy’s life and still the boy bested him at almost every turn. It was actually pretty terrifying what the kid could pull off when Grantaire was off his guard. One minute he could be sitting on his couch, enjoying a simple episode of Say Yes to the Dress, and the next he could be blinded by a dead bird carcass only to be woken up (after passing out, of course) with the kid grinning above him, shaking the dead thing in his hands and proclaiming, “It’s fake. Jesus, you fucking nerd.”

 

So yeah, Gavroche was only okay for the first six years of his life.

 

“Tempting.” Gavroche says, dangling the silver key in between his fingertips. “But I’m quite comfortable up here, actually. Who would’ve thought the pretty boy would’ve had such great furniture to climb on?”

 

Grantaire can feel Enjolras flinch in anger at the kid’s words. Another indicator that Grantaire is  _ way too fucking close,  _ “Gav, come on man. Quit fucking around.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t even shoot Grantaire a glare for using profanity in front of the kid.  _ Huh.  _ “Or what?”

 

Enjolras decides now is the best time to go into hero/lawyer/ _ all self-righteous  _ mode. “Or I’ll see to it the Eponine hears about this. And trust me, I doubt either of us would--”

 

“Calm down Olivia Benson,” Grantaire says, tugging on the handcuff impatiently. “He might not be your average kid,  _ but seriously? You’re going to threaten him? When he is already clearly in a state of power?  _ Idiot move, man. Sorry, looks like you’ve lost your ‘dictator’ roll.”

 

Gavroche just grins lazily down at them, knocking the key against his lips like any moment he is going to shove it down his throat. The thought makes Grantaire queasy. 

 

“Fine,” Enjolras finally agrees, not looking the least bit happy about having to submit to  _ a fucking kid.  _ “What do we do then? I can’t reach him. And neither of us can climb, not like this.”

 

“We wait him out.” Grantaire decides and Gavroche raises an eyebrow at him. “He’ll get hungry or, if we’re lucky, bored soon enough.”

 

Enjolras nods, and jerks Grantaire towards the sofa to wait.

 

And they do.

 

For about ten minutes. Strangely enough, or maybe not so much, Enjolras is the first to crack. Perhaps it’s the way Gavroche keeps twirling the key around in his fingers like a little prick. Or maybe it was when the little brat put it in between his teeth and titled his head back. Either way, Enjolras is clearly done waiting.

 

“We can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

 

“Really? I’m an  _ expert  _ at that craft.”

 

“Grantaire,  _ he’s just a kid--” _

 

Grantaire snorts at that, and above them Gavroche laughs like a little devil, “ _ That attitude,  _ Apollo, is why we are in this mess.” Grantaire lifts up both of their cuffed wrists to demonstrate, or something. “Never underestimate the devil trapped in the form of a dirty, little kid.”

 

Enjolras just looks at him like he is insane, which  _ fair.  _ Expecting someone to get that Gavroche is the spawn of Satan is never the easiest thing to convince, even with Eponine to back him up. It probably has something to do with the fact that Gavroche literally looks up a cute little kid from the Disney Channel that acts all tough but is really caring and sweet inside. Which-- _ fale.  _ So false.

 

“I’m telling you, waiting it out is the smartest move. Ep will be back in two hours or so and then you can get back to glaring or  _ scowling  _ or whatever you practice doing in front of the mirror when no one else is around.” Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras opens his mouth to reply, his face all contorted in frustration, but Gavroche cuts him off, “Hmm, interesting. How do you know I won’t just swallow it when she walks in?”

 

Enjolras stills, “Gav--”

 

“What do you want, man?” Grantaire skips right to the shit. Gavroche may be a little twelve year old dick, but he usually has his reasons. Most of the time, anyway. “Spill or we’ll just go to Ferre’s and have him--him, uh,  _ saw them off.” _

 

“Saw them off?” Enjolras gives him an incredulous look and Grantaire resists the urge to slap his hand over his face just to make himself forget how fucking earnest Enjolras really is. “He’s a mechanical engineer. What do you think he’s--”

 

_ Now I’m thinking that he doesn’t have a saw. And you know what? I bet Gavroche is thinking the same thing. Real smooth, E. Real smooth. _

 

He barely contains himself from saying his words out loud.

 

“Doesn’t matter. Gav?” Grantaire asks again.

 

“Ep cut me off.” Gavroche says,  _ like he isn’t fucking twelve.  _ Enjolras even looks surprised. “I need cash and she’s got the whole place on lockdown so... “ Gavroche smiles, “How much you got?”

 

“Bribery?” Enjolras asks, looking personally offended. Grantaire resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Is that really what this is all about? You just want money?”

 

“Not all of us can be pumped full of gold from day one, blondie.” Gavorche says.

 

Grantaire sucks in a deep breath in between his teeth and prepares for the worst. Enjolras is already forcibly dragging him of the couch and shouting before Grantaire can think  _ oh shit.  _

 

The next two minutes consist of Gavroche snickering and throwing sarcastic comments, Enjolras pacing and chewing Gavroche out the best way one can chew out a twelve year old, and Grantaire--well, Grantaire is just struggling to keep up with Enjolras as he basically stomps all over the living room. In the end, Enjolras threatens to find a ladder  _ somewhere  _ and Gavroche swallowing the key in one, skilled move that leaves Grantaire moaning in--in  _ oh shit I’m gonna be stuck to Enjolras for... _ well, that’s up to Gavroche.

 

***

_ Two hours and fifty minutes... _

 

“Come on, I’m starving.” 

 

“We’ve been here for twenty minutes.”

 

“A decent amount of time. Now, Apollo, it is time to do this thing humans tend to do when they are fucking tired as fuck. Perhaps you have heard of it.  _ A break--” _

Enjolras’s hand slips on the keyboard and bashes into multiple buttons that end up making him frown in frustration up at the screen. Grantaire doesn’t even bother peeking around the computer to see how much Enjolras fucked up his speech or letter to the governor, or whatever  _ an Enjolras  _ does in its free time. Apparently dragging innocent victims that you happen to be attached to, to a boring ass library across campus is somewhere on that list. 

 

Enjolras is a fucking dick, that’s been established by more witnesses and sources than even Enjolras can deny, but  _ seriously?  _ No eating, no breaks, no stopping to check out the new pizza place just a block away because they don’t have  _ a vegan friendly menu  _ are just some of the many things Enjolras has already made perfectly clear after only being attached for a little over two hours.

 

Eponine had come home shortly after Grantaire feared for Gavroche’s life when he swallowed that damn key. She scolded him, sure, but even Enjolras, socially inept Enjolras, could see even she found the whole thing slightly amusing, especially when he explained how he got them stuck together.

 

_ “Blondie here actually believed I didn’t know how to use handcuffs. What a gem, a dumb gem, but a gem.” _

 

Grantaire had to physically drag Enjolras out of the apartment by then, but not before telling Eponine to keep him posted about when the, um, key made it’s next  _ appearance.  _ Yeah.

 

It’s one day, give or take. One day stuck to Enjolras and--and  _ Grantaire can live through this.  _ Maybe. He’s gonna give it his best shot, how about that? 

 

“I told you,” Enjolras says, looking at Grantaire like he has a million problems and Grantaire just so happens to be about ninety percent of them. “I have to get this done. Unlike you, I actually have this amazing thing called  _ a deadline--” _

 

“Hey, what the fuck? I have deadlines.”

 

“Please, you sit in your room for hours drawing, sculpting, and--and doing  _ The Art,  _ only to throw it away when it doesn’t match your vision.” Enjolras says, pointedly.

 

“Alright, just because I  _ magically  _ don’t get every drawing I do right right every damn time doesn’t mean that the due date for it suddenly goes away. All it means is that I just wasted hours of my life spreading colors on a piece of paper only to make a pile of shit and spit.” Grantaire tilts his head to the side, “Sorry Apollo. We can’t all get things right on our first try. We can’t all be perfect.”

 

Enjolras bristles at that, “I’m not  _ perfect.  _ I mess up all the time.”

 

Grantaire snorts, “Okay, besides your inability to drive without hitting at least three inanimate objects. Otherwise, your every valley girl’s wet dream.”

 

“Valley girl?” Enjolras raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow and Grantaire resists the urge to drop his jaw in-- _ whatever. _

 

“Ah, yes. Perfect.” Grantaire says, leaning back in his chair and slipping his feet up onto the chair next to Enjolras causing the guy to frown in disapproval. “Clueless, pretty, passionate, and blonde--if you weren’t so fucking weird you’d have girls lining up to kiss your damn feet, man.”

 

“I’m not Jesus,” Enjolras snaps. “I don’t want people touching my feet.”

 

“Again with your denial of your obvious foot fetish.” Grantaire says, grinning when Enjolras rolls his eyes and averts his eyes back to the screen. He yanks Grantaire’s right hand closer to him so he can type in quick, jerky movements. Grantaire is almost positive it’s on purpose. “It’s not healthy, E, to deny yourself like this. Don’t think everyone is going to just  _ forget--” _

 

“I was asleep! You have no proof that it--”

 

“You moaned.”

 

“Oh  _ my gosh--” _

 

“Like, straight up moaned when Bossuet accidently tripped over your foot when Courf convinced all of us it would be  _ a good idea  _ to bond over fucking rolling around in the dirt in the middle of some random ass woods.” Grantaire says.

 

_ “Wood.” _

 

“What?” Grantaire asks.

 

“You said  _ woods.  _ In that context you’d say  _ wood.  _ Random ass wood.”

 

“You’re such a fucking nerd.” Grantaire easy, ignoring the glare he receives for it. “Fuck being a lawyer. You might as well be a journalist or editor to  _ something pretentious like--” _

 

“You were wrong.” Enjolras points out simply, his eyes glued to the screen.

 

“Well,  _ excuse me,  _ I forget this isn’t Winnie the fucking Pooh and that we don’t live in the  _ Hundred Acre Wood.”  _

 

Enjolras gives him  _ a look  _ that reads loud and clear that  _ hey, you sound like a dumbass right now.  _ Grantaire shrugs.

 

“Camping was a bad idea.” Enjolras grumbles, obviously choosing not to address Grantaire’s idiocy. “Jehan got lice and almost had a heart attack every two days whenever Joly helped him wash his hair with that--that special, smelly shampoo stuff.”

 

“Well yeah,” Grantaire says, shifting a bit when his neck starts to go stiff. “It wasn’t  _ Salon Brand. _ ”

 

Enjolras frowns deepens, “Jehan still wastes his money on that upper class, elitist shit--”

 

“Oh please,” Grantaire says causing Enjolras to look up from the screen and narrow his eyes at him. Grantaire just raises his brows at him, “Enjolras. I’ve known you for way too long. I know way too much about you--way more than I’m proud of. But if you try and tell me that you get  _ that hair  _ naturally--well, then you’re a big fucking liar asshole… face.”

 

Enjolras’s jaw drops a little before setting firmly in a thin, white line, “You’re going to bring this up?  _ Again?  _ How many fucking times do I have to tell you? I  _ literally  _ used to wash my air with hand soap until the eighth grade because I didn’t care what--”

 

_ “Lies!”  _ Grantaire says. “Either that or your hair is actually made out of strung goold. Congrats, E, your gift in life is perfectly permed hair without ever trying--”

 

_ “What the fuck is a perm?”  _ Enjolras nearly shouts, red in the face, in exasperation, “I still, even after Bahorel forced me to watch Legally Blonde, have  _ no fucking clue wh--” _

 

_ “Sir,  _ can you-- _ oh.” _

 

Enjolras and Grantaire look up at the same time, and it’s only when the end of Enjolras’s hair flicks against his nose that Grantaire realizes,  _ shit,  _ how close they were. He gulps and instead focuses all his energy on the angered, elderly lady with hot pink glasses and a blouse that may or may not be a little too see through for the workplace.

 

“Mr. Enjolras,” the woman says and  _ seriously?  _ Does everyone just know how terrible Enjolras is capable of being? And here Grantaire was thinking he was special or some shit. “I believe that is your third strike this month.”

 

Strike? This month?  _ It’s April 11th.  _ What the actual loving fuck?

 

Enjolras closes his eyes, obviously fighting off the want to add onto the anger that already lies around him, seething, “Ms. Peabody, with  _ all due respect--” _

 

“Out.” Bitchy librarian woman declares and Grantaire doesn’t know whether to flip her off or grovel at her feet in gratitude. Enjolras opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but the librarian obviously knows Enjolras well enough to know that letting him get even one word in is practically suicide, “I’ve had to call campus security before, Mr. Enjolras. I doubt they would be too happy to come formally escort you out of here. Again.”

 

Enjolras leaves without another word of complaint, his eyes and muscles practically radiating  _ kill kill die die fucking kill die motherfuck destorytheworld fuck.  _ And Grantaire can barely contain his laughter as Enjolras drags them to a nearby Thai place. 

 

He makes Grantaire pay with his own meal cards, but hey, Grantaire still counts it as a win.

 

***

 

_ Three hours and thirty eight minutes... _

 

“ _ Fuck! Fuckin’--ow! Shit, shit--go get a napkin or--fuck!”  _

 

Enjolras slaps down at least three times as many napkins as necessary over the wet spot currently leaking all over the counter… and on Grantaire’s fucking hand. 

 

“Shit man, watch what you're doing with those thing.” ‘Those things’ meaning  _ Enjolras’ fucking elbow.  _ Grantaire rubs his hand, doing nothing to sooze the aching burn lying just beneath his skin, “Unlike you I actually use this.” Grantaire, because of his own shitty, dirty mind, decides to add a second later even though he is almost positive Enjolras knows what he is talking about, “To paint.”

 

Enjolras frowns at him, because why not?, “You elbowed your bowl?”

 

“You elbowed  _ my bowl _ .” Grantaire snaps. “See? This is why no one likes left handed people.”

 

“I don’t see how this has to do anything with what hand I use to--”

 

“Fuck E,” Grantaire sighs, scooping up probably half of his soup that spilled onto the counter. Or, you know, at least trying to. “We can’t go two minutes without bumping into each other. Or, more accurately,  _ you  _ can’t go two minutes without trying to take me out with your pointy…  _ stumps. _ ”

 

It’s true. Eating had been a horrible idea, Grantaire will own up to it. As if Enjolras’s couldn’t be weird enough, he’s left handed. And Grantaire is right handed. And they are attached. Yep, Grantaire can’t imagine how that would end up being a problem.

 

“You know,” Grantaire says after Enjolras returns his gaze back to his salad, “because it’s on your left hand it kinda makes you, um, the hangman.”

 

“The  _ what?”  _ Enjolras says.

 

“Come on, I know you were there opening night, E. Quentin Tarantino? Hateful Eight? The chick and the dude chained together?”

 

Enjolras looks resigned, like recalling the night Bossuet and Bahorel literally picked him up off his feet and hauled him to the movie theatres is a crime, “I remember.”

 

“Well, you know how this ends then.” Grantaire says casually, scooping up another bite of rice from the Thai place they had stopped by, “Just gonna have to wait until you eat some poisoned soup and then you’ll vomit all over me and I’ll saw off your arm to ensure my freedom.” Grantaire gives a pointed look to Enjolras’s soup and takes delight in the fact that even Enjolras has paused shoveling in another mouthful, “...anytime now….”

 

Enjolras just rolls his eyes, puts down his fork, and wipes his mouth off with a napkin, “He drank poisoned coffee. Not soup.”

 

Grantaire is taken back for two seconds before he remembers that Enjolras isn’t Bossuet and forgets everything about a movie literally thirty minutes after he watches them. “There you go, Apollo, busting out the movie trivia that even I fuck up.” Grantaire places a hand--not the hand attached to Enjolras--over his chest. “I’m so proud.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and stands up, dragging Grantaire along with him. Grantaire holds back a wince mostly because there is no point. His wrist is already rubbed raw and despite his whining and bitching at Enjolras to cut it out, no one can beat Enjolras in the whining and bitching department. Enjolras owns the permanent gold medal to that title whether he wants it or not.

 

It’s been three fucking hours--no, more than that, and Grantaire has never felt so emotionally drained. He’s pretty sure Jehan came up with a saying on the fly one time that went something like one can only handle a measured amount of Enjolras a day before their brain ultimately inverts into mush because of all the optimism leaking out of the guy. Or perhaps Grantaire came up with that saying. Probably. 

 

Eponine has already texted him that the plan to have Feuilly saw the cuffs off is a no go for multiple reasons that Enjolras has voiced multiple times aren’t worthy enough. One being that sawing a perfectly good pair of handcuffs just because they can’t suck it up and get along is dumbass reason to ruin them. Two being that it’ll be a ‘great bonding exercise’ for them (that one is from Courfeyrac). And three, probably the only one that matters, is because apparently Gavroche never owned a pair of handcuffs before Saturday night when Eponine’s new girlfriend cop…  _ friend person?...  _ decided to spend the night and left a perfect opening for Gavroche to rob them blind. Eponine had managed to return the taser and club (thank fuck), but even she couldn’t find the handcuffs in time before Gavroche wrecked havoc with them.

 

So yeah, they can either break the handcuffs and be taken in for breaking government and police equipment. Or, stick it out for another… many, many hours or so.

 

Enjolras is the only one leaning  _ strongly  _ towards the former.

 

They’ve managed well enough, Grantaire thinks. They’ve only gotten kicked out of one public place on campus and took part in around a dozen fights (one of them Grantaire wasn’t even a part of. Nope, just Enjolras and some old lady who decided to voice her very republican opinion on the presidential campaign just at the wrong time). And--neither of them have any scars or bruises.  _ Score. _

 

“I’m not done.” Grantaire protests, reaching for his still only half-eaten bowl of Thai food still sitting at the table just out of reach. It’s not like Enjolras would even dare take a half step back and allow Grantaire access to his food. Nope, he has already taken on his perfect interpretation of an  _ actual  _ statue and Grantaire doubts anything could move him.

 

“We’ve been here for over six minutes.” Enjolras replies, like shoveling down a fucking huge amount of Thai food should be perfectly possible in such a small amount of time.

 

Grantaire huffs, “We all can’t shovel shit down like you do. Some people actually like to chew and swallow their food. You know, perhaps if they have a little bit of extra time actually  _ savor the taste. _ ”

 

Enjolras eats like he is in prison and some rival gang member is going to snatch his food away if he takes even a second to process what is on his tongue. Literally though, he eats with his elbows firmly on the table, his long bamboo-ish arms circling around his food like a safety net, and his eyes darting around like he is expecting an incoming attack. It would be hilarious, and usually is, but sitting right next to him and actually  _ attached  _ to him--nope. All that accomplished was Enjolras’ dumb, pointy elbow knocking half the rice out of Grantaire’s bowl.

 

“I mean,” Grantaire continues even when Enjolras just huffs and drags him out of the Thai restaurant because he is an idiot, “I know you just had a salad, man, which is definitely the blandest among all human foods. But still,  _ it was a huge ass salad.  _ Seriously, with dressing and shit all over it I literally have no clue where it all went. You must’ve inhaled it when I nearly got first degree burns on my hand from my own fucking soup.”

 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, voice oddly strangled as his gaze stays focused on the outside of the Thai restaurant. He whips the glass door open with way more force than needed before taking long strides outside, not even caring that Grantaire is two large _ Enjolras  _ steps away from just straight up being dragged like some toy dog on a leash. 

 

“Yeah?” He manages to huff.

 

“Shut. The fuck. Up.” Enjolras says simply-- _ simply _ , but with lethal intent behind is words.

 

Grantaire just smirks and gives him a good thirty seconds to cool down, fearful he might burst into flames before chatting away once again. Doing what he does best.

  
  


***

 

_ Six hours and forty two minutes… _

 

Of course Gavroche had to lock them together on a Tuesday. Out of all the days of the week it  _ had to be a Tuesday. _

 

Tuesday is Grantaire’s favorite and least favorite day of the week to be alive. Favorite, because he gets to sit in the back of the Musain and insult Enjolras while he rattles on and on about his naive and hopeless ideas. Least favorite, because he has to sit and listen to Enjolras rattle on about his naive and hopeless ideas while trying not to roll his eyes. It’s a win, ultimately, getting to see the look on Enjolras’s face when Grantaire told him  _ oh, um, hey yeah you’re wrong,  _ but it came with a price.

 

Sitting in the back of the Musain and listening to a beacon of light speak right before you  _ and  _ act like an asshole takes a lot out of one person. Grantaire has managed it more than enough times, most of them while completely drunk and swaying in his seat.

 

Now though-- _ now though-- _ Grantaire’s regular Tuesday gathering has been ruined by a twelve year old brat who was  _ so  _ going to pay for this. 

 

It feels weird to sit up at the front of the table, let alone next to Enjolras. Grantaire is closer to the door this way--an unreachable exit, fuck. He is used to being stuffed into the back like an old box full of shit people just want to forget about. He doesn’t mind it. It’s cozy back there with his drink and occasionally Bossuet and Joly to keep him company. 

 

Sitting in the back though is no longer an option for him, at least not on Gavroche’s  _ tie someone to a crazy activist  _ day. It doesn’t come as a shock to Grantaire that despite he and Enjolras’s little (cough cough)  _ predicament  _ the Les Amis meeting is still going to happen without interruption. Not even being tied to him can make Enjolras take one week off from fighting-- _ whatever.  _ Probably the Patriarchy.

 

Most of the Amis already know about the handcuff fiasco business due to Eponine tweeting and telling everyone about it, traitor. That doesn’t stop Courfeyrac from bursting out laughing as soon as they walked into the room (Enjolras stomping through, Grantaire dragged behind) and hasn’t stopped for the past five minutes straight.

 

It isn’t until Enjolras’s knocks him upside the head that Courfeyrac is able to say anything coherent at all, “Priceless.” He drawls, wiping tears away from the corner of his eyes. “Truly priceless. Gav’s finest work yet.”

 

Grantaire would say something back. Something along the lines of  _ you curly-headed fucktard _ \--but honestly, he is too tired to give two shits. Seven hours with  _ Enjolras,  _ the God of the fucking sun, ruler of the New World, and honorary whiney piss-head… it has taken it’s toll on him. It’s like school all over again but more terrifying and blonde. Grantaire’s mind feels rattled and emotionally incapable of coming up with anything remotely useful, not to mention he is pretty sure he is one good tug away from Enjolras ripping his right arm out of his socket.

 

“Enough Courfeyrac,” Enjolras snaps, all serious business mode and  _ yeah. Enjolras.  _ Courfeyrac just grins at him before he continues, “As you all have probably heard me and Grantaire, for the time being and under unfortunate circumstances, are handcuffed together.”

 

“How long has it been?” Bossuet asked curiously, his eyes shining brightly with amusement.

 

“Seven.” Grantaire says, deadpan. “Hours.” 

 

“R, you look completely trashed.” Feuilly comments from behind the bar. “What did you do to him, Enj?”

 

Enjolras has the gall to look offended, “Nothing I wouldn’t normally do.”

 

Grantaire snorts from where his head is resting in his arms. He pushes himself up, “Oh really, Apollo? You  _ normally  _ stop at six different shopping stores within a one hour time frame just to find the right brand of damn pickles?”

 

Enjolras says, without hesitation, “Yes.”

 

Jehan chuckles next to Courfeyrac, his blonde hair poking out from underneath his floppy, fuchsia beanie. Bahorel just straight up gives a throaty laugh that echoes throughout the bar and makes Feuilly wince… fondly. Combeferre is probably the only one at least  _ trying  _ to hide his amusement about the situation. Either that or he is just pissed that they have already wasted a solid eight minutes of  _ Justice Time  _ on this.  

 

“Do you  _ normally  _ pick a fight with every white, cis, republican you run into? Even if they are fucking seventy and have hearing aids?” Grantaire says, causing Combeferre to throw Enjolras a disappointed look.  _ Ouch.  _ “Do you  _ normally  _ have to reach for the highest shelf in every damn library to get a book?”

 

Enjolras furrows his brows together like he has no idea what point Grantaire is trying to make. Like Enjolras  _ hadn’t _ reached for at least a dozen books on the highest of fucking high shelves while being completely oblivious to the fact that  _ not everyone has elephant trunks for arms, E.  _

 

Yep, Grantaire was definitely going to have to have Joly look for any permanent injuries to his arm after this whole fiasco is over.

 

The meeting runs…  _ smoothly.  _ Or as smoothly as it can with Enjolras standing up and flailing his limbs around like a crazy animal completely unaware he is one powerful swing away from throwing Grantaire across the table. Another thing that probably  _ hurts the meeting’s professional feel  _ is the fact that Grantaire is now at the front of the crowd, shoulder to shoulder with their leader when he should be in his honorary cynic-spot at the back, admiring and rolling his eyes from afar.

 

Now though, there is nothing to stop them from arguing--not like anything could really stop them before--but now they are face to fucking face arguing about something stupid. Grantaire can’t even really remember what it is, probably something about income tax and public parks or some shit, but Grantaire is never one to back down from a challenge… even if he forgets what the challenge is halfway through pursuing it.

 

_ Say the opposite of whatever the piss-head says.  _ Easy.

 

“You  _ really  _ think that, Grantaire? Really.” Enjolras says, somehow making his voice sound deadpan and angry at the same time.

 

Grantaire gives him a look, ignoring how his right wrist was slightly hovering above the table because  _ Enjolras just has to stand up,  _ “Um, yeah?”

 

Enjolras huffs, annoyed, and Courfeyrac is already leaning back in his chair, waiting patiently for the show to begin. Asshat. 

 

“Child Protective Services,  _ out of all services provided,  _ are being targeted with government budget cuts,  _ and you think that’s fair?”  _

 

And-- _ oh shit.  _ Grantaire mentally freezes and can only pray it doesn’t read in his body language. He suddenly longs for a bottle and curses Enjolras for not even letting Grantaire steal a quick drink before the meeting began. His mind whirls back and tries to conjure up an idea of  _ why.  _ Why the fuck is he having this conversation--this argument--with Enjolras? Grantaire's favorite thing in life, sadly enough, is probably debating and arguing with the naive idealist--but there is a line to how far he takes it. There is only so far he can pretend to be on the other side of an argument just to get a rise out of Enjolras, just to see the flames rise in his ice blue eyes. There is a limit to how far Grantaire can argue, crazy enough.

 

This-- _ right fucking now-- _ would be Grantaire’s cue to fucking book it. As soon as the words CPS left Enjolras’ mouth maybe his brain had already shut off and excused itself from the conversation. It would explain why he hasn’t broken into a cold sweat right now or, you know, kept his fucking mouth shut.

 

Grantaire’s sighs, long and hard, trying not to think too hard because it is too late to go back. Backing out of a fight with Enjolras is like sending off a red flare--it wouldn’t go unnoticed. He could say something reasonable like:  _ No Enjolras. I don’t agree with that and,  _ hello,  _ in case you forgot it isn’t my fault the government is full of dicks.  _

 

But Grantaire never is the most reasonable of people. Not when it comes to Enjolras anyway.

 

Instead, he leans back in his seat like he is the personification of  _ I don’t give two fucks and a shit _ , and says, “Not everything in life is  _ fair,  _ Apollo. I know, surprising. Money might be flying out of people’s asses but--”

 

“But we put that money where? Into our military? Into weapons designed for killing--”

 

_ “Probably.  _ Jesus E, I swear it’s like you don’t even  _ live here--” _

 

“Ten percent.” Enjolras snaps, drawing Grantaire’s wrist up roughly, nearly hauling him out of his seat. “10 percent less than what CPS estimated it needed for the biennium to help families affected by child abuse and neglect this year. Do you know what that is going to cause? How that is going to affect people, not only children suffering from abuse, but people who have jobs and are good at what they do are going to be fired or laid off because there is no money to pay for their services. The thought of children not being able to--”

 

“And you think every child that has ever gotten a black eye or beat on is suddenly  _ saved  _ by CPS. Huh? Sure, they get them out of the house  _ if  _ they have enough evidence, but in the end it’s all the same. Try and find them a home--oh, there is no home willing to take in some kid that has been pounded on their entire life and has chronic depression and all this other fucked up shit. Well then,  _ at least we tried our best, right?  _ Into a fucking foster home they go.” Grantaire says, his voice rising on pure instinct.

 

The whole table falls silent and--and somehow Grantaire has stood up and is facing Enjolras dead on. Eye to eye. How his knees haven’t given out he isn’t sure. Perhaps he is entranced, Enjolras always was way too beautiful to be real when he was fired up. His body could just be acting on it’s own, refusing to look away even if every muscle in his body screams at him too.

 

Grantaire never was one to go easily or follow the rules. Someone had told him once that looking at the sun too long would only blind him. Well, he is looking,  _ staring in awe even,  _ and his world evidently isn’t fading into a pit of black mass, but the opposite even. He feels like he has finally opened his eyes,  _ had them peeled open, _ and he can finally see. 

 

And fuck if what he sees-- _ hope, blistering and strong-- _ doesn’t make him want to run for the hills and never look back. 

 

Enjolras looks like he wants to step forward, to move past a wall Grantaire has somehow made between them, but they are already too close for comfort. Instead, he looks down on him with a look Grantaire can’t distinguish between angry and--and--

 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras say, too quiet for this to be one of their normal fights. “I thought--because of everything and--all I can remember is… Out of everyone here, how can you say things like that?” A look of disgust crosses Enjolras’s face, his voice lowering in anger, “ _ You,  _ Grantaire. Don’t act like I don’t know you. Don’t  _ fucking  _ act like I can’t see through your bullshit after--”

 

“You don’t know  _ shit--” _

 

“After  _ everything.  _ Don’t act like this means nothing to you.”

 

_ “Ten fucking per--” _

 

“Ten percent that can be put to use!”

 

“Oh, well great then. You know what, fine. Fine E, I’ll get out of you way. I bet you are already planning a fucking--I don’t know,  _ fuck _ \--a…  _ a fucking rally _ right now in your head that is going to magically make the government to stop being assholes.” Grantaire spats, unable to fight the tug of his wrist when Enjolras draws his wrist away, instinctively. He shakes his head, blinking profusely, “ _ Jesus E.  _ Nothing is gonna fucking change just cause you can scream and bitch about it all day!”

 

_ “You shit.”  _ Enjolras growls through clenched teeth. “How can you say that--”

 

“Because I have common se--”

 

Enjolras is already taking over him, “ _ You can’t be serious--” _

 

“Nope, I really can’t, E. I can’t take  _ anything seriously--!” _

 

“After everything Grantaire,” Enjolras bites out, stepping into his space until Grantaire can feel his breath brush against his cheek, “ _ how can you say that?  _ After your Father and--and  _ your brother--” _

 

And  _ that,  _ is the final straw. The last piece of the shattered, ruined puzzle that completes Grantaire’s utter and sudden absence from his world. 

 

All he can feel is red. Red hot and boiling underneath his skin. And, a feeling much stronger grows-- _ a feeling to flee. _

 

Grantaire cuts Enjolras off with a harsh jerk of his writ while attempting to leap back as if he’d been scalded. Enjolras’s eyes widen at the sudden lurch and realize, suddenly, that it’s the first time Grantaire has tried dragging him anywhere that entire day. Enjolras stares down at his wrist as if he can’t believe the piece of metal is still there, that it held up all this fucking time.

 

“Enjolras. Enough.”

 

Combeferre. His voice is soft and calming but Grantaire still feels his heart racing. He wants to be  _ gone.  _ He wants to be away from everyone, everyone--especially Enjolras. The sight of the spoiled, idiot piss-head makes him want to wrench as the words replay in his mind.

 

_ You Father and brother.  _

 

_ Your Brother. _

 

_ Like he  _ really  _ knows anything at all. _

 

There is no escape though, and judging from the various looks of worry from the people around him--they realize this too.

 

And then, call it fight or flight response, Grantaire decides to do something you probably shouldn’t do to someone you are chained to.

 

Grantaire reels back in left hand and before anyone can stand up and stop him, he punches Enjolras right across his cheek.

 

***

 

_Seven hours and fifty two minutes..._

 

“Well, this is idiotic.”

 

Grantaire is on the ground,  _ Enjolras’s bedroom’s ground,  _ with a blackened nose and a couple of bruised ribs. No big deal. He’s got a pillow at least, and a blanket, but that doesn’t necessarily take away the discomfort of having his right hand suspended in the air while Enjolras’s left hand hangs from off the top of the bed. 

 

“I told you already,” Enjolras mumbled, “Just because your house is farther away, doesn’t mean I was opposed to going to your apartment instead.”

 

Grantaire huffed, “Yeah right. Like you’d ever sleep on the ground.”

 

“I’ve slept in the middle of the street for three hours once.”

 

“Doesn’t fucking count if you get knocked out, dumbass.” Grantaire says, but there is fondness in his voice. He clears his throat after a moment of silence, “So, um, how’s your eye?”

 

“Swollen shut and pulsing.” Enjolras drawls, but he doesn’t sound mad. 

 

“Good.”

 

“Mmmhmm.”

 

“You deserve it.”

 

“I do.”

 

“Asswipe.”

 

Enjolras sighs, “Agreed.”

 

Grantaire bites the inside of his cheek, unsure of what to say or just shut up and let them both drift off and pray that in the morning Gav has given them something to… work with. Talking has always been their strong suit--arguing actually. Mostly arguing. But talking about feelings? Apologizing? Patting each other on the back and saying that they would never hurt the other again? That they crossed a line that wasn’t to ever be crossed?

 

Nope, that wasn’t an...  _ EXR  _ (thanks Courfeyrac) thing to do. Even Jehan doesn’t have a list pinned up on the Musain walls about it. Not even a betting pole.

 

It never happened because there is no  _ line.  _ Sure, one might say something that results in the other punching away in anger, but that is normal...ish. Finding a line that shouldn’t be crossed meant that they  _ care.  _ That they  _ actually care  _ about what the other was thinking or feeling. It would create an imaginary pack between them that implies that they are more than just bitter rivals feeding off of the other’s pent up rage.

 

It would mean they were something when Grantaire has tried so many years to convince himself they’re not.

 

Enjolras is the one to break the silence, “You should take a shower.”

 

If Grantaire was drinking water right then, for some reason, he surely would’ve choked and died. End of story. But, even without the extra fluids to help him out, Grantaire still finds a way to splutter like an idiot.

 

“What?” Grantaire asks.

 

“Your nose bled for a long time, Grantaire.” Enjolras explains, calmly. Like this is all rational. Like they are talking about the fucking weather. “I could smell it all over your shirt on the way home.”

 

“Don’t worry about it.”

 

“Too late. I already am.” Enjolras says, and Grantaire’s heart gives an uncalled for lurch in his chest.

 

“Look,” Grantaire says, “this is just going to be like the incident at Whole Foods today. Going to the bathroom? It took us probably twenty minutes to find a position where you didn’t have a perfect view of my dick but also weren’t standing fucking five feet away.”

 

Seriously, it was a mess. Grantaire has no idea how much of a  _ sharp shooter  _ Enjolras thinks he is but…

 

“Fine,” Enjolras huffs, and Grantaire doesn’t even have to be facing him to know he is scowling. “At least… how is your ribs?”

 

“Swollen and pulsing.” Grantaire mimics, which is more or less true. After Grantaire thought it was a good idea to slug Enjolras in the face, Enjolras had fallen backwards and had ultimately taken Grantaire down with his. Long story short, Grantaire nearly broke a table in half when his whole right side landed on the edge of it. Still, that didn’t stop him and Enjolras from throwing kicks and punches at each other until Combeferre and Bahorel stepped in and pulled them apart. Or, well…. however far apart they could.

 

“M’fine.” Grantaire says. “You?”

 

“Fine.”

 

And that’s it. That’s their ‘apology’, their ‘truce… until next time they disagree that is.

 

Enjolras’s floor is cold but not as ratty and uncomfortable as Grantaire’s. Still, he is on the floor, but it is a nice floor nonetheless. Grantaire has only been in Enjolras’s room a handful of times, but the room wasn’t anything spectacular. It’s a decent size with a simple with blue bedding, a desk, and more than a couple filing cabinets that Grantaire could already tell are a mess. Enjolras is pretty unorganized considering he wants to save the world someday.

 

Grantaire, after two minutes of silence, suddenly lets everything sink in. The whole day. The babysitting, the being chained together, the Whole Foods incident, the old lady incident, the being kicked out, the fucking soup, the punching and emotional breakdown and--and begins to laugh.

 

Not loud and annoying like he would if Bahorel had made some joke about Feuilly being a soulless ginger, but quiet enough that Enjolras shifts above him, twisting Grantaire’s wrist that is slowing going numb.

 

“What is it?” Enjolras ask, genuinely sounding concerned and Grantaire can’t help but snort.

 

“Just--fuck, it’s just,’ Grantaire shakes his heads, ignoring the pain in his ribs that comes with the laughing. “I never really realized, but--”

 

“What?”

 

Grantaire laughs, “You gotta admit, man. This is pretty fucking hilarious. I mean--this situation, right here. We’re… it would only happen to us.”

 

Enjolras is silent for a while as Grantaire keeps giggling or snorting or  _ whatever noises are leaving his mouth,  _ but eventually he joins him. He is quiet at first, nothing but a few short amused huffs, before he is almost louder than Grantaire. They laugh until there are tear in there eyes and Grantaire is finally starting to feel the effects that Enjolras’s voice is having on him. Enjolras’s laugh, if anything, causes the pain in his ribs to increase, but for once he doesn’t mind.

 

They don’t stop muttering nonsense like  _ it would only happen to us  _ and  _ no man, come on, let’s do this again. Good bonding experience and everything,  _ but eventually Grantaire’s laughs die out when he feels the familiar tug of his wrist. He looks up even though he can’t see in the darkness of the room.

 

“The fuck are you doing? Wanna drag me around some more?”

 

“Come on,” Enjolras says, the amusement still evident in his tone. “Get up here.”

 

“And smear nose blood all over your sheets? I couldn’t live with myself.”

 

He can practically feel Enjolras roll his eyes, “Come on, I’m just as uncomfortable as you are. I feel like you are some  _ dog  _ lying next to my bed--”

 

Grantaire laughs then and, despite his better judgment, stands up, “Alright, alright. Quit bitching and scoot.”

 

They are both wearing the same clothes they were that morning and the chain holding them together rattles whenever they move. Grantaire  _ is _ getting nose blood all over Enjolras’s sheet, but Enjolras’s pillow is already slightly damp from the blood that seeped into his hair from a small cut on his forehead from earlier.

 

Grantaire can see him, his eyes slightly more adjusted to the darkness, and he can’t help but smile at Enjolras and his swollen fucking eye and split lip. His hair is slightly damp and there are a few dried blood stains running down the side of his temple and all Grantaire can think is that he  _ really  _ shouldn’t look as beautiful as he does right now. He really,  _ really fucking shouldn’t. _

 

So, with another amused huff, he says, “You look like a wet rat.”

 

Enjolras grins, but tries his best to tone it down as he shoves Grantaire in the shoulder and tells him to go the fuck to bed. Grantaire decides to oblige and hopes he can fall asleep before he realizes how much he probably should be freaking out right now. 

 

Somehow, thank the Gods, he does.

 

***

 

_Fourteen hours and two minutes..._

 

Grantaire wakes up feeling warm and at first he is positive that Eponine left the stove running again and his house is burning down. His eyes slowly open and he is greeted by the sight of the sun shining through Enjolras’s bedroom window.  _ Enjolras’s bedroom window.  _ Oh yeah,  _ he is in Enjolras’s house. In his bed. Basking under the sun from his window. _

 

He wishes that explained why his whole body suddenly feels plaint, warm, and safe.

 

Enjolras’s arm is slung over his midsection, caging Grantaire back against his chest. Grantaire can feel the soft breathes against his lower neck and tries his absolute best not to squeak. They are still connected--so it wasn’t just a fucked up dream Grantaire had. Wow--and they’re hands are close together. They aren’t holding hands, but with the way Enjolras’s is laying over Grantaire’s, smooshing the chain into his skin, they might as well be.

 

Enjolras shifts suddenly, his lips trailing slightly down Grantaire’s neck before parting slowly and letting out a sleepy…  _ moan.  _ He moaned, and Grantaire is just a human being who smells like nose blood. His arm tightens when Grantaire’s body starts to go stiff and although that  _ really  _ shouldn’t help Grantaire calm down… he still finds himself molding back into Enjolras’s embrace.

 

Grantaire really shouldn’t freak out.  _ He fucking doesn’t because he is not thirteen years old with a crush.  _ All their friends cuddle. Enjolras cuddles. He cuddles. He can’t even count how many times he has actually fucking fallen asleep directly on top of Bahorel’s chest or on Jehan’s shoulder with their legs and arms all wrapped together. This is just… bro cuddling. Nothing more. 

 

So, that is why Grantaire doesn’t feel very guilty when he lets a pleased smile cross over his features and lets his eyes flutter shut once again. It is still early, he can sleep a little longer…

 

****

 

Gav gives them the key  to their freedom later that morning.  _ Literally. _

 

Eponine raises her eyebrows at both of their states--Grantaire with his nose looking more or less broken and Enjolras with half his face swollen and puffy--before shrugging and calling them both idiots.

 

The handcuff fiasco becomes somewhat of a legend and  _ no,  _ Courfeyrac will never let either of them ever live it down. Not like Grantaire expected any less.

 

It is only a couple of days later when Grantaire has somehow been roped into watching the little brat again that he realizes something. If Gavroche stole those handcuffs off of a cop and that was the reason they couldn’t break them…  _ why they fuck didn’t he and Enjolras just go down to a police station to have them taken off then? _

 

The thought causes him to freeze for a moment.  _ Oh.. shit. _

 

Oh, well. What is done is done and, honestly, as sick and unhealthy as it is, Grantaire really can’t find it in himself to regret anything that happened.  _ Fuck. _

 

“Hey R, so did you and Elle Woods have to like shit and piss in front of each other?” Gavroche asks, all amusement and  _ pure evilness.  _

“Don’t bother calling him that. He likes it too much to be annoyed.” Grantaire says instead. Afterall, he knows from personal experience.

 

Grantaire completely ignores him. Instead, his face lights up like he has just discovered something great, “ _ Ha-- _ bet you had to sleep together too. What a nightmare.”

 

Grantaire gives him his best glare that Gavorche shakes off like it’s fucking nothing. Typical.

 

Grantaire’s mind reels back a couple days before. Enjolras’s breathe of his neck. His arm around his waist. Their legs somewhat intertwined. Enjolras’ chest against his back--

  
_ Yeah… a real fucking nightmare. _

**Author's Note:**

> I have more prompts in mind (obviously) but if any of you have any in mind I'd love to hear them :)  
> Just to clarify, I'm only writing drabbles in Grantaire's P.O.V about first things HE sees/does/?? with Enjolras. I've tried writing in Enjolras's mind, it never ends well. (Ex. First kiss, first rally, first...)  
> Hope I explained that well enough ^_^


End file.
